I’ve been thinking rather heavily upon the idea of New Year’s resolutions. And I’ve decided that this year, I’m not going to make any. The words “New Year’s resolution” have a temporary ring to my ears, perhaps because of so many jokes about people’s resolve lasting until January 2, or maybe because of so many of my failed resolutions in the past. New Year’s resolutions seem to be something one is expected to kick to the curb with no backward glance, and I find I am just not satisfied with that prospect.
There are so many things I want to accomplish this year. I have eight book ideas ricocheting around in my head. There are marketing and business duties to which I need to be more attentive in 2013. There are many things around the house that must be accomplished this year. There’s a whole new software system coming down the pike at work, which means rethinking my whole way of performing my job duties. I have a Benjamin joining the Buttercup this year, so a whole lot more Nana duties are heading my way. To sum up all that in neat little resolutions gives me the same tense, anxious, desperate feeling I get when I sit down and try to outline a book from start to finish before I begin writing. It just doesn’t work for me.
I want to be the best person I can be. I want to be the best writer I’ve ever been. I want to be the best possible Nana to my grandchildren. I want to be a better wife and a better mother and a better friend and a better employee. I want to be less bitter about the feud with my family because, let’s face it, we all made mistakes in that whole stupid war. I want to throw myself back into ROW80 (Round of Words in 80 Days) and support and be supported by my fellow indie authors. I want to eat better and stick to my Zumba and lose weight and fit into the f–k-me fire-engine red dress I haven’t been able to wear since 2005 and I want to plant a cutting garden along the alley side of the garage for the neighbors to pick a flower or two on their way past and I really, really, really want to find my daughter’s missing cat.
As I write all these words, I see a common thread. I want. I want. Maybe that’s what’s been wrong with my New Year’s resolutions all these years: I want. I want I want I want I want I want.
I’ve come to believe the solitary occupation of a writer lends itself rather readily to selfishness. The care and feeding of a writer demands a great deal of internal living and time spent on the craft. It’s so easy to get lost in what I need to receive as a writer (time, solitude, few interruptions) that I forget what I need to give (time to my family, my full attention, my willingness to be interrupted when someone needs me).
Perhaps my resolutions should start with “I give…”
Before I take my leave to go ponder this epiphany, I leave you with this question:
What will you give this year?
And with this thought:
If you’re so busy giving to everyone else, who is going to be taking care of what you need?
Why, everyone else, of course. ♥