So here’s the thing. I think you will relate, gentle reader, because my condition, I’m convinced, is a sign of the times.

I have so many choices, that I don’t know what I want. And until I know what I want, I’m not going to be successful at it.

I even have more choices than most people, because I’m single and I have no kids. The only things gluing my feet to the ground are my mortgage and my dog. And–okay–my friends. And–okay–my family–sometimes, when they behave.

And I’m 50. That’s just surreal. I might look 50 despite my anti-aging efforts, but I don’t feel it, and I don’t act it. Funny how I used to think 50 was old. Dang, I used to think 30 was old. Now 30 is cute.

Being 50 puts some urgency on figuring out what I want and getting good at it. I get jealous of successful people who are younger than I am–and they abound. It’s not their money or their fame I covet, it’s their focus. They did one thing, learned it well, and stuck with it.

So what the hell am I going to focus on?

The only way I know how to figure that out is to write.