Sunday, November 30, 2014


"What were you doing in 1991?"

Twenty-three years ago ... I have to think, but only for a moment. That was the year of the first Gulf War, the year I turned 30, the year when everything came together for me as a reporter and writer.

"This," I texted back, sending a snap of an award I received for investigative reporting. It was a showy boy thing to do, but there was no shorthand way to describe that year of being cocksure, when I couldn't imagine being on any higher perch. I was money, honey, and I was certain this was the best time of my life — proof that 30-year-old RED still had a lot to learn.

Within a year I would be promoted to features editor and launch a redesigned newspaper section. Within two years I would be known not for reporting, but for a daily column about nothing called CHATTER. Within five years I was covering courts and beating the competition every day. Within a decade I would start a magazine and be back on the radio.

So, 1991: a great year, but not my life's zenith — not professionally, not personally. All those moments of absolute certainty ... not just wrong, but also ignorant of all the potential still ahead.

I have one certainty now: my zenith is still in the future. My best days are waiting for me to arrive and arise. Like many of the certainties in my past I may be completely wrong about this one, and I'll own it if I am.

But the spring in my step is real. The words, inspired and optimistic, pour from my fingertips. I have not yet peaked.

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