[Update: I don’t want to scare anyone into thinking it takes four years to learn how to fly. It took me that long for other reasons. Normally it takes from 2 to 12 months, depending on your availability and the weather, with 60-80 hours in the air.]

After four years of lessons, including a long interruption from covid-19, I finally earned my private pilot certificate! Traditionally I should write something profound about flying, but in the end it wasn’t about conquering the air. It was about conquering myself. I often study a new interest but don’t actually do anything with it. I buy a book or two. Maybe I dabble for a while. Then I move on to something else. This time around, I quit taking flying lessons twice (besides the break for covid-19), but I went back each time. Getting the certificate became an exercise in ignoring the shoulder angels who whispered that flying was too difficult.

Aviation has taught me confidence and humility in equal measures. By nature, I’m not adventurous. I’m not interested in flying blind in the clouds, relying on instruments to keep myself upright. Give me a nice day with high clouds and I’ll fly a few thousand feet up, enjoying my life and the view of the world below. That’s enough for me, because the shoulder angels aren’t wrong. The paradox of human flight is that if you listen to your fears, you’ll never leave the ground, but if you ignore the quiet doubts, someday you’ll become a cautionary tale.

And now that the mental pressure is off, I can turn my attention back to another ambition. I have a novel out for querying. While the responses dribble in, I’ll get back to work on a couple of short stories that have been languishing. There are some earlier novels that need significant re-writes and some sketches that need to grow into real books. In the past four years, my flying skills got better and so did my writing. It’s only a matter of time before something gets published, as long as I don’t quit.