I have a Facebook friend who is also a writer. In fact, he's the one who got me interested in Raconteur Press. He's had half a dozen or so stories published in their various anthologies. And I've read some of them. He's quite good.
I found out a day or so ago that he's going to have a novel published. I don't know who's publishing it, but he's managed to snag the brass ring. I believe it's going to be the first in a series, too.
And I'm genuinely glad for him. I'm eager to read this novel.
But it also kind of hurts.
I don't have any kind of body of work, to be honest. I've put three stories out there, with two rejections and a pending. I'm working on another short story, and I do think it's coming along well, although I'm writing it without any clear place to submit it. And I've got ideas written down for longer pieces. Those are harder to corral. Just a skeleton of an idea is not enough for any story, particularly longer ones. Even a short novel for young readers needs to have a definite shape, so I'm mulling things over on these ideas.
Actually, it hurts because I've always wanted to pursue writing, even when I was a kid. But I didn't, for a lot of reasons. So I never developed the disciplines and skills and, most important, the tough hide you need in order to weather the rejections. And I feel like I've wasted my time, and I don't know if starting now, in my late sixties, is too late. But I can't help it; I have to try.
It's the feeling that I'm running out of time that hurts the most. I tended to what was urgent and neglected what was important.