Some years I make all kinds of resolutions. Even categorize them and print them out. Lose weight, write more, remember to take your vitamins, use coupons. Other years I wing it.
I’m not winging it in 2012. Rather, I hope to spend the year writing. I know, I know, I’ve set this as a goal before, but this year is different. First, I’m staying put. Given that I’ve moved thirty-four times in twice as many years, this means I won’t get distracted with packing and unpacking and decorating.
Second, I no longer am gainfully employed. I quit my job the end of July and told myself I’d take the rest of the year off. Traveled to northern Canada and Colorado and New Mexico and upstate New York. Reacquainted with Scarlett O’Hara and Alice in Wonderland. Finished some crochet projects that had patiently waited their turns. Swam three days a week and almost mastered the butterfly.
But my writing languished. My blogging ebbed to a trickle. I sent only ten queries out the entire 2011. As December came and went I chastised myself and decided that 2012 is the year I shall attempt not only to write more but also to send manuscripts out into the world. The first part I love; it’s the second that is tedious. I just have to remember that author John Grisham was rejected over one hundred times. Which means I have ninety to go.
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