I hate New Year's Resolutions. I don't think I've managed to leave one unbroken. Still, there's something about flipping that page on the calendar...something about the quiet just before Midnight when it seems everyone is standing still...
You start to think. You think about the year already gone, all the things you meant to do, the resolutions you confessed to friends and family, the deeper promises you whispered to yourself in the dark after everyone had gone. And you think about the year to come, the pages in the calendar as yet unmarked and the promises you know you're going to make both to others and to yourself...all of them as yet unbroken.
And, if you're like me at all, you start to make lists. You won't call them resolutions. Why tempt fate? They're lists, silly little lists of things you always meant to do, little things, big things. You write down the name of the little tea shop you've been meaning to stop into, the dress size you'd like to call your own, the 3K run you'd like to complete.
Before long, the list fills one page, maybe two, you have to stop yourself. You are, after all, neither a child nor unrealistic. A saint would struggle to complete half the tasks you've laid out for yourself. And you are no saint.
So you put the list away. You fold it into fourths, then again, and again, tucking it away into a back pocket.
So, what am I thinking with this Row80 thing? I don't know. I honestly don't.
An acquaintance of mine posted mention of it on Facebook. I was curious. Then I was anxious. I still have that list in my back pocket. The funny thing about that list? Of all the things I wanted to do, thought I should do, all the things my fingers said were important enough to make my yearly list of soon-to-be disappointments...I didn't put down a single item related to my writing.
Being the anxious type and prone to over-analyzing any given situation, I wondered what that meant.
Have I grown out of writing? Have I moved beyond it? Gotten over it?
I cringe at the thought.
And then I dismiss it.
Because that list, those pages of promises...are all things I probably won't do. The tea shop? Maybe. But the dress size? The 3K run? Getting the name of the cute guy from the pest service I've been semi-crushing on in the hopeless never-ever-gonna happen kind of way? Some things just aren't happening.
And I know that.
So why on earth would I lump my writing ambitions in with that lot?
So I'm tossing the list...and the resolutions. This year, writing. Row80.
Semantics, you say? Possibly.
As long as it works.