It was dusk and the day about to disappear as the traffic signal glowed bright red, then green. I remember my parents’ silver station wagon double-parked at the corner of 79th Street and Amsterdam Avenue, its four-ways flashing. All of my worldly possessions were stuffed into trash bags and packed into that car.
I was leaving New York City. A betting man would not have wagered on my fleeing like this as I’d spent my youth sacrificing to get to and be in this city.
In New York I planned make my mark—become a famous actress, escaping my small hometown in Pennsylvania.
Unlike most teenagers, the summer I was fifteen, I rode the Bieber Bus from rural PA to NYC everyday for auditions, go-sees, and casting calls. When school started that year, I kept at it, going to class in the morning, then commuting two and a half hours to the Big Apple, only to return each evening, suffer through homeschooling, go to bed and then do it again the next day. By the holiday break of my senior year, I’d completed enough credits to graduate early from high school.
I moved to the Big Apple after Christmas, first living in Queens, then relocating to Stuyvesant Town on the Lower East Side, and finally settling 79th St in the Upper West Side.
My days were full with college lectures, auditions, go-sees, guest appearances on soap operas, exciting messages on my answering machine, a waitressing job at night, museum visits, near-miss screen test for big films, half-price Broadway tickets, and new friends from all over the world. But more than anything else, there was a sense that something great was about to happen. That my dreams were within striking distance.
This was my city and I would never leave. I was going to be a creative–an artist.
But.
Hormones have a funny way of changing things. Like getting hit by a Mack truck. I met a handsome professional soccer player and suddenly thought I was in love. And just like that I found myself in my mother’s car sitting shotgun headed toward the Lincoln Tunnel. I was going south. Next stop, Dallas, Texas.
First, we’d swing through Pennsylvania for a wedding. My husband-to-be, that professional soccer player, flew into Philadelphia from the West Coast, and at nineteen-years-old, I walked down the aisle of my small country church and sealed my fate one a rainy New Year’s Eve.
In my new, hotter city, I was the only married college student I knew at the University of Texas—an unusual status, for sure.
Fast-forward a couple decades. Four cities. Two children. A house in the suburbs. A real estate career. And a marriage complicated by my husband’s addictions.
At age forty, my younger self came calling, wanting to know what had happened to the creative person I had set out to be. How had I ended up where I had promised to never return—small town Pennsylvania.
I was lost.
It wasn’t as if I wanted to start acting again. When I walked away from the stage, I did it sincerely. In hindsight, I was too quiet, too introverted—being the center of attention made me comfortable (still does). But the long-buried artist wept secretly in the shower at night and yearned for more.
So, I tried knitting. After making twenty scarves and buying too much expensive yarn, I still wasn’t satiated.
That’s when began to write in an attempt to quell my creative hunger. I’d always kept a journal and I’d secretly written bad poetry for years. Plus, I loved to read. My undergraduate degree is in Literary Studies.
Slowly, one word at a time, I came back to myself.
And I’m back in New York. Divorced after thirty years of marriage, my children are almost launched and I am starting over in this city that held me as a girl.
Sometimes I fear it is a moment in time that I’m trying to recapture—to revisit an instant when anything seemed possible, when the future was wide open. If I am honest, I’d like a do over. It’s been a hard reckoning, but I understand that there won’t be more time. That’s the folly of youth. The misconception that, “I can do that later.”
Mark Twain wrote, “Twenty years from now you will be most disappointed by the things that you didn’t do than by the ones you did do. So throw off the bowlines. Sail away from safe harbors. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover.”
So before it’s too late, I am trying to do this now. My young adult kids think I’m a little crazy and fear how they might show up in my writing.They don’t yet understand the slippery nature of time. And how it just might trick you.
My writing seeds are sown. I fertilize them and wait for sprouts. Twelve years later, now fifty-two years old, I have an MFA in Creative Writing, two published novels, several viral articles, my first off-off Broadway production as director/producer about to launch, and a heart once again filled with hope and dreams.
Still the committee in my head drives me crazy (and my family, too). It’s a battleground.
One voice says, It’s too late.
The other says, The journey has just begun. The time is now. Let’s roll.
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Midlife: when the Universe grabs your shoulders and tells you, “I’m not f@#ing around, use the gifts you were given.”
—Brene Brown
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My novel, What The Valley Knows, will be released January 25, 2018. Woohoo! Preorder now, using the code PREORDER2017 to save an additional 10%. Click HERE to purchase and enter to win a $100 Barnes & Noble gift card or a Kindle Paperwhite.
“This sensational novel is a moving, poignant story.” (Readers’ Favorites)
xoxo,
Heather
Thanks, sweetie! Your support keeps me plugging along.
Happy to have been there on that New Year’s Eve night ! It’s NEVER too late!!!
Thanks, Tina. I’m trying to play catch-up now and hustling my writing wherever I can.
The best is yet to come Heather!
I love that you are eagerly awaiting the fulfillment of your dreams. Many, at this point in life, raise their arms in surrender and let those dreams go…..
You are an inspiration!!!!!
Thanks, Darla! As Tom Petty sings, “The waiting is the harder part…” I looove that you are pursuing your Phd! You are an inspiration to me!
Dear Heather, how well I remember what a beautiful bride that you were! I enjoy your blog every Sunday morning. Tell you Mom and Dad that I said hello. I saw Miss “El” two weeks ago and told her about your blog, hopefully you will hear from her. Jean Spence
Miss Jean, thank you for reading and trying to spread the word about my blog. Hugs and kisses to you and your gang.
Beautiful blog, Mom!!! It is never too late to fulfill your dreams!!
Thanks, Darling! I can’t wait to see your dreams come true. I have a feeling you are going to end up in NYC.
Beautifully written, your drive and accomplishments are second to none! Keep on going, but don’t leave the suburbs 😉
I wouldn’t mind having a place in the city and a homebase in Berks County. But that would take a whole lot of money. I don’t think I’m going anywhere.
It is never too late- Good things will continue to happen. Don’t give Up! I Love reading your stuff!
Thanks, Denise. Your encouragement keeps me going!
Oh, to be 40! I rarely think of age–I’m still working on going those many miles before I sleep. You, Heather, are an endless source of seed planting and sprouts coming up all over the place–one greener than the next. This was a great blog. The universe most likely grabbed you years back. Thanks for sharing your gifts! Gotta love Brene Brown!
Thanks Geri! I’m a little closer to 50 than to 40 (ugh)! The craft of writing is so long and the publishing industry so slow that I feel I need several lifetimes to get to where I want to be as a writer. You are an inspiration to me with your kind and consistent encouragement.
There is no limit but the limit we set for ourselves. Follow your passion and while you do that, support your children’s passions and still share the lessons of the value of time. Plans are made to be broken. Enjoy life! Great share 🙂 I live in New York and I can’t afford to live here so I am making plans to move elsewhere in a few years. Warm weather will dictate where I land . . lol.
Mari, I love “Plans are made to be broken!” Brilliant. Yes, enjoy life. Thanks for reading.
Maybe you’re living your story as it is written. I always seem to end up right where Im supposed to be, when I realize where I AM supposed to be. Its not about the destination…….always the journey!
Yes, Jon, the older I get the more I understand that it’s about the journey and not so much about the destination. As my mom says, “Bloom where you’re planted.” My path has lead me home.
“Bloom where you’re planted, my mom says.
What I realize is that this longing is for more than a place. It’s a moment in time I’m trying to recapture—to revisit an instant when anything seemed possible, when the future was wide open. It didn’t matter if I left New York City. I could always go back. There would always be more time. But that’s the folly of youth. The misconception that, “I can do that later.”
So before it’s too late, I am trying to do this now.”
I’m working on a new project that is all about the “too-late” dilemma, and I too long for that time in my life where I truly felt anything was possible. Your mother’s words echo my mantra and whenever I start to drive myself crazy, I remind myself of all the women who achieved greatness in their later years. Time is construct. Our dreams are still our dreams.
Dear Hannah (sister-in-arms), all we can do is dream and put the work in. Here’s to greatness in our 40’s, 50’s, 60’s, and beyond!