2014 is slowly creeping up on us. Ready or not, here it comes.
New Year’s Eve has never been a big deal for me. Honestly, I’d rather go to bed than sit up with overtired kids and Twilight Zone reruns. After all the rushing around for Thanksgiving, Hanukkah, birthdays (there are four December birthdays among my family, including Andrew’s), and Christmas, I’m too freaking tired to make another fun holiday celebration. So, here I sit, in my champagne jammies, listening to the kids fight over electronics and impatiently wait for the big, sparkly ball to drop.
New Year resolutions have always been a bit baffling to me, too. Why only set new goals at the beginning of the year? That’s easy. It would be much more challenging to set resolutions after all the confetti settles and winter really grabs hold (I suppose that only applies if you live in an area of the world where “winter” means cold temperatures, snow, and ice). And what happens if you accomplish whatever resolution to dream up on New Year’s Eve? Do you write more? Or do you sit back and coast through the rest of the year.
Perhaps I just don’t feel brave enough to challenge myself with a resolution. I typically don’t make them, at least nothing that is too difficult. I have a lot going on, with the kids, and it’s simply easier to let myself off the hook. Sounds like a resolution right there, no? Seems straightforward enough: make more time for myself, to do what I want to do. Read, exercise, read, write, read. I have a huge stack of books that I want to read, yet I am constantly resigning myself to thoughts of self pity, and end up “rewarding” myself with another round of Words with Friends rather than reading a few pages out of the book I’ve been trying to finish for two months. It’s easier to play silly ten point words than concentrate on the words on the pages of a novel, right? My eyes would roll to the back of my head if one of my kids tried to tell me that time on electronics was more important than getting in their daily fifteen minutes of reading. So, maybe that’s a good place to start. More “ME” time.
Hidden in there would be making more time to write. A dear friend challenged herself to write every day last year, and she accomplished it. I admire her so much for that; she is also a very busy mom, yet she made time for herself and her writing EVERY day. I could do that. I mean, if I can move the kids’ elf every night for three weeks, then I could certainly bang out a blog post every day. Maybe? Some days will probably be boring, uninspired, and even ridiculous…but if I can force myself to sit down and focus on the thoughts in my own head long enough to craft an essay, then that would be something.
The very thought of writing every day is exciting and scary. What if no one reads what I write? That actually doesn’t bother me as much as I thought it would, although I do dream of having a fun, popular blog that spawns into a best selling book. The really scary part is thinking of all the nasty comments people could make about my writing. Could I handle it? I read what the “trolls” post in response to stories that pop up in my Facebook newsfeed. Words like “rude”, “ignorant”, and “terrifying” come to mind when reading those comments, and some of them really stick with me for days after seeing them. Why should I care what Joe Schmo thinks about some “breaking news” story or what another blogger writes? Because someday, they could be hurling those insensitive words at me, in response to my writing.
But, maybe that’s what I’m meant to do: inspire people enough to cause them to pause in their crazy little worlds to leave a comment based on what I wrote. Like it or not, I could have an affect on them; hopefully for the better, but I’ve seen train wreck blog posts that cause quite a stir. (Mrs Hall, are you out there somewhere?) Perhaps, though, even the disastrous of essays can spark a conversation that needs to be heard and shared. I could do that.
Or, if nothing else, writing is cheaper than therapy.
I guess I can give it a go. Blog everyday and cross my fingers that somebody, somewhere, reads it. We’ll see what happens.
Until then, have a safe and happy New Year’s Eve celebration. Or, if you’re like me, sweet dreams, and enjoy that champagne in a mimosa tomorrow morning.