When did I become the oldest one in the room? – Part 3

God isn’t done with me yet.

And if God is still editing, there’s hope for me yet.

I wonder whether God, like the writer, starts with a rough draft.  If so, does he turn loose of the manuscript before or after we land in the womb?

Before or after we’re torn kicking and screaming therefrom?

Before or after our baptism or bar mitzvah?

Before or after our bones are interred in the cold, cold ground?

I think maybe God turns the rewrite task over at some point in our childhood.  Oh, God watches: As I’ve steadily progressed toward becoming “the oldest person in the room,” I’ve felt his hand upon my shaky tiller more than once.

My journey to elder-statesman status was built largely on “wingin’ it.”  Rules of thumb.  Guesstimates about the best course of action or the way best to avoid embarrassment and defeat.

When I was 12, I learned that residential home lots were 25 yards wide ... I could throw a football 50 yards or so – down to Bob Minnock’s house from my front yard – but 25 was a more comfortable hard-spiral distance.

Then in the 1970s and 80s, they shrunk, and my rules of thumb – which were, after all, only rough guidelines to begin with – shrunk along with them.  Older and portlier, I could maybe hit a slow wide receiver at 20 yards ... with no hope of flinging that NFL special more than 40 yards through the air.

Yep, residential home lots shrunk from 25 yards to 20 yards just in time.

Today, with a shredded rotator cuff, such old and comfortable standards no longer seem relevant.

Can’t punt a football anymore.  Handsprings and headstands are out.  Even hide ‘n’ seek with my grandson is a significant challenge, it seems.

Can’t hit a 7 iron 150 yards anymore, either.  That worked out to a little over 150 paces back in the day, when my stride was 2.9 feet on the old pedometer.

Blessed today with a titanium hip, I set the pedometer at 2.2 and still start looking around for my 7-iron shank 150 paces out.

Still, I can accept that.  Most things in life now ... I anticipate every day with relish, but have learned to scale back my expectations.

My life as a Writer?  A constant revision.  And by that, life has taught me about writing:

Do a rough draft.

Edit.  Rewrite. Revise.

Revise your expectations, and those of your audience, to fit the vagaries of reality.

God isn’t done with me yet.  And I’ve still got a few pages to go on the old manuscript. 

Next: Verbing

[For personal writing assistance, go to www.fixadocument.com]