Okay, I know I’m not alone in this: I love making New Year’s resolutions… lots of them. It makes me feel so good knowing that, this year, I’ll finally:


  1. improve my (sometimes complicated) life,
  2. polish up my (not exactly perfect) looks,
  3. exploit my (unexploited) talent,
  4. learn to control my (hopeless) lack of organization.

I’ll also

  1. practice music with more dedication
  2.  wake up earlier, forgo the pleasure of lying in a warm bed, and write more books
  3.  finish and send out the manuscripts that have been hanging around and moldering for years,
  4.  buy a hula hoop and exercise more,
  5.  take the long-suffering dog for longer walks,
  6.  brush aforesaid long-suffering dog more often,
  7.  do some serious housework (before the dust bunnies rise up and consume me softly during the night),
  8. be nicer to everyone, even to those people who are absolutely awful to me,
  9. write to long-lost friends.


That’s enough, now. Time to get to work.


Except… I know perfectly well I won’t do even one of those things. I’ll just carry on as I’ve been doing for years, taking my time, enjoying what I have, allowing myself to be slothful, to daydream, and to plot out thousands of new stories that might never see the light of day.

So what if nothing changes? I’ll do better next year, I promise.



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