I don’t do New Year resolutions. I have had enough of target-setting at work.
So don’t expect me, today, on New Year’s Eve, when I’m full of mince pies and Christmas cake and busy with family and social activities, to vow to eat less/ do a dry January/ join a gym/ read more/ do more in the garden/ spend more time with the cat… or even to do more writing.
Most targets at work are just bits of paper for your manager to wave in front of his/her manager. So are too many New Year Resolutions. Most New Year resolutions would dissolve in the fountain in Trafalgar Square (if we could muster the energy to get off our sofas, take a train to London and jump in). Come the second week of January, we’ve forgotten about them (unless anyone’s joined a gym, in which case he/she will get an unpleasant reminder every time receive his/her monthly bank statement).
What’s special about a new year? If we’re serious about what we do, we consider what we want to achieve carefully and over a longish period of time. We set our proper goals whenever, in any month, any week. Most importantly, we give ourselves the necessary tools, because our goals are real and we believe in them.
I am definitely not doing enough writing. I’ve posted on ‘From Story Idea to Reader’ Facebook group that I want to finish editing The Novel. Also, I know I should also be submitting short stories to likely markets. But, as you know, Dear Reader, I’m visiting The Novel every Thursday (in term-time, anyway) and not submitting any short stories at all. The tool I need is time. So… I have got to think about ways to make more time to write. This is not easy to get my head around and will not come quickly, seeing as a girl has to live as well. And I want to do my stuff for church and the Association of Christian Writers. I’m accepting entries for the ACW Historical Fiction competition at the moment, but I’m not promoting it in this post as the deadline is midnight tomorrow.
No quick New Year fix, I’m afraid. …Maybe I should give up blogging. It is very time consuming.
When my husband worked in the City, he used to buy the Private Eye annual every year and get it signed by Ian Hislop, in Waterstones. Says my husband, “Well, Ian, another year.”
“Yes,” replies Ian Hislop. “Another year, another pair of underpants.”
(And that’s a true story.)