More than any year so far in my 30s, I’ve been self-aware about the passage of time. Part of it comes from the inevitability. In your mind, you started the decade only two years ago, and there’s plenty of road ahead. And yet, tomorrow I turn 37 and have to accept something that I haven’t been the best about acknowledging: I am officially in my late 30s. Whereas you could defend 34-36 as the “middle” years, I am officially entering a period when everything is starting to close up shop, and it’s time to start looking ahead. The days of being young and vital are fading in the cultural sense (forget the “age is just a number” motif), and I must consider that the next stage of any legacy is taking root.
A question I’ve asked myself is how I can age without losing passion. There have been many times when I became dismayed at knowing something that once felt so vital is close to 15 years old… and it’s still after high school. I try not to ruminate on the past too much, but you can’t help but recognize how much the world has changed as the next generation has staked their claim in the fields you once dominated. Meanwhile, I’ve been struggling to accept my place among them, knowing that my perspective might be seen as irrelevant and whatever topics speak to me no longer signifies anything close to a “zeitgeist.”
One of the reasons comes from a Cracked Podcast episode I listened to from my early 20s. It was back when I, impressionably, believed everything that website published was professionally vetted. Host Jack O’Brien discussed a recent study about how people become less ambitious with their media consumption by their Mid-30s. I forget the actual age mentioned, but it was one of those facts that stuck with me. I knew even then that I didn’t want to become old and yell at the kids to get off my lawn. I remain largely indifferent to 2010s pop music, but I wanted to find some way to not feel “removed” altogether.
This situation has been exacerbated in contemporary times by observing politics. It’s an age when everything is a culture war and the rejection of new ideas. Because of this, I’ve been keen on seeing the president’s worldview as tragic, where he’s more interested in crafting a fantasy instead of engaging with a way forward. I am scared about growing old and turning into him, somebody who doesn’t know how to talk with other people and retaliates with violence. Given that his actions impact more than himself, it’s easy to use him to extrapolate. Do I keep trying to connect, or hope there’s always somebody around willing to put up with my nonsense? For me, art is the great unifier among generations as we exchange ideas and create a collective study of history through expression. For example, I may not have lived through The Dust Bowl, but Woody Guthrie’s music has helped me understand the values beyond dull academia.
This isn’t a breakdown of art I loved from the past year. It is merely subtext to a greater search for self during a time when every week blurs together and the only signs that yesterday happened were personal documentation. Time marches on, and I’m aware of how valuable it is to collect small things that speak to you and give life greater meaning.
At the same time, I’m unsure how to address “passion” in this context. Ultimately, my outlook favors a world where art is made more for personal connection than consumption. I’m aware this gets into sticky discourse around the art/commerce conversation. I believe everyone deserves to have a comfortable living, and I champion any artist who “figures it out.” I may disagree with what they’re saying, but the hope that we can continue exchanging ideas in a public forum means a lot to me. In an ideal world, the most genuine rise to the top.
Some of my existentialist debate around passion stems from worry that my perspective is irrelevant. Most people in my generation have settled into more conventional careers and started families. From the exterior, it sounds like they have emotionally fulfilling lives. Don’t get me wrong. Every time I publish an article or short story, I find vitality flowing through me and confirming that I put something into the world that will hopefully find an audience. As a dyed-in-the-wool “publish or perish” type, 36 was a prolific period that makes me feel accomplished, even if I still continue to wonder if anyone out there cares.
Then again, the career of the writer has always been one of constant worry. I grew up wanting to be a journalist, so watching that industry slowly fall apart before I reached college was my first harsh reality moment. Creative writing, by comparison, feels more expansive. The notion that anyone with a keyboard is a writer forces me to wonder if maybe, paradoxically, I am too smart or ambitious to have an audience that cares. Then again, I’ve read four Thomas Pynchon, two Philip Roth, and two Don Delillo books since last July, so maybe I’m too pretentious to ever have been seen as “accessible.” After all, one of my style reference points is mumblecore films, so I’m not exactly Barton Fink writing the life of the mind.
As much as I could believe that my voice is unique to me, I get caught up in the art/commerce debate on whether what I’m saying is interesting. That, and I fear the art signifier in that conversation is melting into the other. There was the moral debate around NFT’s a few years prior, and now there’s generative A.I. that has simplified the creative process. I have not been personally motivated to use the textual component as a resource, but as someone who, insecurely, is not good at drawing, I have used it a few times to create a rough sketch of ideas for my stories. Even if I trust my imagination more, the value of an image allows me to see something bigger. Which is to say that I worry as much about the next generation’s codependence on A.I. to produce half-baked ideas while writing school essays as I am about the collapse of demand for authentic artists. I want to believe this is a fad that will go away, but the addictive immediacy is undeniable and, much like The Safdie Brothers with old grungy architecture, there may come a point that the flimsy imagery becomes a nostalgic reference point.
My greatest concern is not what it will create, but what it’ll do for my personal drive. Humanity is flawed and, by that nature, develops art reflecting many unique perspectives. There is a process to making something feel genuine, and I worry that not allowing myself to make mistakes and search for answers in tough moments will cause everything to conform to a bland amalgamation. There needs to be that pushback, where I look at a sketch I drew and cringe a little. I need to allow for imperfection. The past few years have felt at risk of losing any human touch, and it means the effort to allow yourself to stumble is more important than ever. If not, we’ll be stuck in ambiguity where nothing matters, and with that so goes the art.
That may also be the byproduct of watching people who have built careers around online performance struggle to find their own vitality. I’ve long been sympathetic to the Brad Taste in Music controversy not because I believe he was altruistic, but because of how he’s struggled to find meaning in a public that wants to see him fail, where the only choice he had was to give up his career and go offline, where any appearance would be scrutinized and mocked. In the existential debate on whether I should keep making art, I look at that story and notice someone who found a niche and became addicted to the attention, even if it ultimately crushed him. As I ask myself how much of myself I want to put online, I look at those willing to be vulnerable and consider if the stakes are worth it, especially as voices like Clavicular strike me as personalities who sabotaged their future for the sake of brief encounters with fame. Do I have the drive to not lose my mind within the mess, or will I spiral?
At the end of the day, I am too small a writer to matter in this conversation. Even so, it’s mixed with the fact that I am not a lucrative name that forces me to ask if the passion is still there. As much as writing gives me reason to live, am I capable of removing that joy from the capitalistic expectations? I’ve done it for so long that I know I can, but even so… how long can I go without having doubt set in? Social media isn’t nearly as fun as it once was. Am I just going to have to find some other way to feel passionate?
The short answer is that I’ve found plenty of other alternatives to fill that time. I’ve gone to more baseball and volleyball games to be engaged with the moment. I’ve gotten into arts and crafts, which are the most humbling experiences I’ve had lately. When I fail, I have no choice but to try again. If I want to find the mechanics that create something greater, I need to be patient and really invest in the experience. I’ve been tutoring family members during the school year to make sure they understand their homework. While I’ve failed yet again to get into sketching (my family got me a daily prompt book for objects when I’m more interested in people), there’s always the hope that this’ll be the year. I’ve watched videos on art history and put myself in situations where I have no choice but to lean forward and ponder. Efforts to find the genuine have made me realize how much better the world is when you tear yourself away from the computer.
Then again, I am imperfect. I still have to write on a laptop regularly for my own sanity. I may loiter on YouTube at night way past reasonable hours. Even so, I am working to be more engaged with reality and appreciate a universe that’s less closed off. It helps that I’ve been taking care of lovely cats, though they live up to their job description of giving me a hard time. Having regular activities that push you into being active makes it easier to be less ruminative.
Not only that, but I’ve found small ways to feel optimistic about the future. Despite concern that younger generations are trapped in a digital landscape, I’ve found outlets that confirm it’s closer to hearing a loud minority. They are keeping the spirit alive. Even if we are all still naïve, there’s a new exchange of ideas currently going on that makes me hopeful. I saw a local theater put on Jagged Little Pill and thought that, so long as there’s art like this to perform, there will be room for that conversation. I look at the work of Louise Weard and find my craving for raw, unpolished cinema remaining hyperactive (though not always at four hours). I saw Backrooms and had what can only be described as a “spiritual experience”… all thanks to a 20-year-old who tapped enough into a shared mentality while presenting new ways forward. Maybe the artists have their own workarounds. Maybe we’ll survive against the tech oligarchs after all.
I recognize this isn’t necessarily a traditional eulogy where I highlight everything that happened, but I wonder if at some point I’m just recounting everything I’ve already said. I always feel like I get stuck in the loop of mentioning a low before compensating with a defensive “things will get better” high. I’ve tried to make these a valuable time capsule of my past, though I’ve often felt like I’ve come up short. To get to the heart, you need to dig into everything else I’ve written since last July… though that’s going to take hours if not days of your time.
And with that, tomorrow is my 37th birthday. I am officially in the back half of my 30s. At this point in my 20s, I was planning to write my first novel, “Apples & Chainsaws.” There is a sense of closure that I start mentally preparing for around this time. As much as I live in the moment, I am self-aware of changes and the need to encapsulate them so that I don’t forget. My art is about immediacy, which is to say that I am planning a short story collection before the end of 2026. I have another novel in the rough draft stage. There’s a lot to keep me busy. While I talk about the efficacies of writing, I am at a good place with that “publish or perish” talk. Not only that, but I’m able to appreciate a world outside of my keyboard. Maybe by this time next year, I’ll be even further away from it. You’ll just have to come back and find out.
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