1
THE MIRROR
“We don't see things as they are, we see them as we are.”
– Anais Nin
O
CTOBER
17
TH
, 2009
It was the morning after my thirtieth birthday party, and I was lying on the
cold tiles in the upstairs bathroom of my house. My skin felt sticky to touch, and
I imagined a shard of glassware was tearing my head in two.
I got up, put my hands on the sink, looked in the mirror and into my
bloodshot eyes. I didn’t like what I saw.
I could (almost) forgive myself for having a crippling hangover the morning
after my birthday. I knew my life had some trappings of success: a healthy son
and daughter, a wife, a paying job and a modest-sized house.
But I knew I was a failure.
However, since I was a five-year-old boy reading a tattered copy of Roald
Dahl’s The BFG underneath the bedcovers with a flashlight between my teeth, I
wanted to be a writer. But to want something and to be brave enough to pursue it
are two different things. I’d spent 25 years being too afraid to pursue what I
wanted.
For years, I read books about getting more done, coming up with ideas,
unlocking fresh thinking, changing habits, writing, and managing To Do lists,
calendars and even time itself, but I was the ultimate procrastinator.
I collected other people’s big ideas like they were rare coins that belonged in
a glass case at the back of my mind. I never put what I found into practise. I was
too afraid to start, too afraid to go after what I wanted, too afraid to think big.
Sure, some of my decisions opened doors for me. I talked about Ernest
Hemingway and Anaïs Nin over pints of beer with friends, and I studied
journalism in college (a suitable course for any would-be writer). I even talked
my way into a job as a print journalist for a Dublin newspaper.
There, I was paid to report on news stories each week. I was terrible at it. I
dreaded the weekly news meetings, and I couldn’t stand being in the same room
as the editor of the newspaper. I was permanently devoid of ideas to write or
report on, and everybody at the paper knew it.
I didn’t last long at that job or the next job in the media.
I left journalism and drifted into another career that had nothing to do with
writing, a career that snuffed out any sparks of creativity from its employees
with mind-numbing routines, policies and procedures.
I became afraid of taking creative chances because I was worried about
paying the bills and of what others would think. I became caught up in the day-
to-day practicalities of life.
So the morning after my birthday, I looked in the mirror at my receding
hairline and the first flecks of grey in my beard. I saw I was no closer to
becoming a writer than the five-year-old boy who stayed up at night reading a
frayed, yellow copy of The BFG.
I realised I needed to face my fears. I was a zebra who needed to change his
stripes.
I needed to at least start, and I could do it with small, incremental changes.
I’d work on becoming physically and mentally healthier. I’d seek out new ideas
and put them into practise. I’d get over feeling afraid of rejection and failure, and
I’d learn the demands of my craft.
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