My year-long goal is to read 52 books. That equates to a book a week, which shouldn't be hard, considering the kinds of books I like can usually be polished off in a day. So far, this is what I've read:
The Hunger Games and Catching Fire both by Suzanne Collins--
sign me up for the fan club... what more can I say?
Gorgeous by Rachel Vail--
interesting story, but not so gripping that it will go down in history as one of my favorites.
Captivate by Carrie Jones--
second in a series. I usually read series books in order and this one was accidentally out of order, but I didn't care for the author's writing style and won't read the others.
Lament and Ballad by Maggie Stiefvater--
good story telling mingled with bad language, which (I thought) would have been better without. The first book, Lament, had a good hook at the beginning, while the second, Ballad, just sort of rode on the coattails of the first... not as gripping, but readable if you can get past the language (which is more abundant in the sequel)
Friday, January 29, 2010
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Exercising Futility
futile adj. useless, ineffectual, frivolous; futility.
There are things in this world, laws if you will, that go on and on without question throughout all the ages and forever. Water is wet, dogs like to smell that way, and dirty dishes have no end. Parenting falls somewhere between dogs and dishes and, even though I don't recall signing my name in blood, there must be contract out there binding me--mind, body and soul--to the position.
Fine. Yes, I did quit. But I'm a fiction writer, right? Nobody believes my words and all is null and void during stormy nights when the power goes out and a diaper needs changing. Pull out the wellies and change the sheets. Say goodbye to sleep, it's over-rated anyway. Rain, hail, snow and wind, bring it, baby.
A couple of weeks ago, we had a visit from the head lice fairy and doused her in toxins and washed EVERYTHING in the house. She died. This week, our partially finished basement turned into a really dirty swimming hole. I wonder if the mice enjoyed it...
OK. I know I said I would clean the entire house this year, but I really wasn't expecting to tackle it right away. Six kids in a three bedroom house, shall we review the definition of futile? First, they outnumber me and I'm no longer bigger than all of them. Second, my motivation went on vacation without me. If I clean the living room and walk away, there's a pillow fort being constructed upon my return, complete with an entire Lego nation preparing for battle. Cleaning bathrooms...little boys-- need I say more? Of all my ridiculous goals, cleaning the house was the one that scared me most. I prayed for help. (cue laughter)
Don't get me wrong, I'm very thankful. The parasites are gone and that weird smell from the boys' room disappeared. All the junk I couldn't bring myself to deal with in the basement now stares me in the face each day, piled in the living room, awaiting judgement. The only areas of the house divinely unaffected are the office and garage. All I need is a big trash can, multiple trips to the dump, and a tornado to knock the garage roof off, but I'm a teensy bit wary of praying for that last one. Besides, who counts the garage as part of the house?
I'll pray for something else.
There are things in this world, laws if you will, that go on and on without question throughout all the ages and forever. Water is wet, dogs like to smell that way, and dirty dishes have no end. Parenting falls somewhere between dogs and dishes and, even though I don't recall signing my name in blood, there must be contract out there binding me--mind, body and soul--to the position.
Fine. Yes, I did quit. But I'm a fiction writer, right? Nobody believes my words and all is null and void during stormy nights when the power goes out and a diaper needs changing. Pull out the wellies and change the sheets. Say goodbye to sleep, it's over-rated anyway. Rain, hail, snow and wind, bring it, baby.
A couple of weeks ago, we had a visit from the head lice fairy and doused her in toxins and washed EVERYTHING in the house. She died. This week, our partially finished basement turned into a really dirty swimming hole. I wonder if the mice enjoyed it...
OK. I know I said I would clean the entire house this year, but I really wasn't expecting to tackle it right away. Six kids in a three bedroom house, shall we review the definition of futile? First, they outnumber me and I'm no longer bigger than all of them. Second, my motivation went on vacation without me. If I clean the living room and walk away, there's a pillow fort being constructed upon my return, complete with an entire Lego nation preparing for battle. Cleaning bathrooms...little boys-- need I say more? Of all my ridiculous goals, cleaning the house was the one that scared me most. I prayed for help. (cue laughter)
Don't get me wrong, I'm very thankful. The parasites are gone and that weird smell from the boys' room disappeared. All the junk I couldn't bring myself to deal with in the basement now stares me in the face each day, piled in the living room, awaiting judgement. The only areas of the house divinely unaffected are the office and garage. All I need is a big trash can, multiple trips to the dump, and a tornado to knock the garage roof off, but I'm a teensy bit wary of praying for that last one. Besides, who counts the garage as part of the house?
I'll pray for something else.
Sunday, January 24, 2010
The horrific confessions of a quitaholic
I'm hiding in my house, behind piles of chocolate, used tissues, and any old movie I can get my hands on. Nestled into a comfy chair, beneath a mound of cozy blankets, I'm drowning active thought with cold pills and good old Hollywood (cause who needs to think in tinsel town?) Somewhere, outside my happy bubble, children are foraging for food, bills are piling up, and pets are planning ambushes on the first fool to step through the door.
OK, first off, before I freak all my friends out and receive a flood of worried phone messages, I do have a cold, so drugs are justified. Second, I've quit.
Quit? you ask... Quit what?
Well, I'll tell you. The dishes weren't done, and the house was a wreck. I said 'Fire the maid.' Dinner, for the fifth time this week, was leftovers. I said, 'Fire the cook.' The kids were late to school and late being picked up... you guessed it. 'Fire the chauffeur.'
Except, nobody's listening, so I quit.
A few weeks ago, I made some ridiculous resolutions that four days afterward I was ready to repeal. Clean the house?!? Clearly I was under the influence of something that should be illegal. And read 52 books? To date, I've read one this year, which suggests I might (maybe, if I'm lucky) read a total of twelve before December 31st.
I quit.
Dieting. Yeah, right. Let's not go there.
So, as you see, it is official that I have quit all sense of responsibility, reason, fair play and... whatever else I can come up with that needs quitting, too. I will no longer respond to the name MOM or any of its affiliates. As soon as I get a lawyer, I intend to make this legal. I am hereafter to be thought of as the innocent bystander without connection to anyone or anything, with absolutely NO responsibilities.
I'm going to bed, I will wake up whenever I feel like it and not fix up the covers. I will eat whatever I wish, and not wash it up. I may or may not change any diapers, share any food, or settle any arguments, depending on my mood. If the cat keels over, chuck him over the fence. That goes double for the dog. As for the little people stomping around all over...
Oh, fine. I'll keep them. They are kind of cute. When they're quiet.
Hmmm.... cold medicine... yeessss.
OK, first off, before I freak all my friends out and receive a flood of worried phone messages, I do have a cold, so drugs are justified. Second, I've quit.
Quit? you ask... Quit what?
Well, I'll tell you. The dishes weren't done, and the house was a wreck. I said 'Fire the maid.' Dinner, for the fifth time this week, was leftovers. I said, 'Fire the cook.' The kids were late to school and late being picked up... you guessed it. 'Fire the chauffeur.'
Except, nobody's listening, so I quit.
A few weeks ago, I made some ridiculous resolutions that four days afterward I was ready to repeal. Clean the house?!? Clearly I was under the influence of something that should be illegal. And read 52 books? To date, I've read one this year, which suggests I might (maybe, if I'm lucky) read a total of twelve before December 31st.
I quit.
Dieting. Yeah, right. Let's not go there.
So, as you see, it is official that I have quit all sense of responsibility, reason, fair play and... whatever else I can come up with that needs quitting, too. I will no longer respond to the name MOM or any of its affiliates. As soon as I get a lawyer, I intend to make this legal. I am hereafter to be thought of as the innocent bystander without connection to anyone or anything, with absolutely NO responsibilities.
I'm going to bed, I will wake up whenever I feel like it and not fix up the covers. I will eat whatever I wish, and not wash it up. I may or may not change any diapers, share any food, or settle any arguments, depending on my mood. If the cat keels over, chuck him over the fence. That goes double for the dog. As for the little people stomping around all over...
Oh, fine. I'll keep them. They are kind of cute. When they're quiet.
Hmmm.... cold medicine... yeessss.
Friday, January 15, 2010
The Homeland Adventure Channel
Welcome to our show. Today's episode dives into the realms of science fiction to explore and restore the well-known but rarely spoken of bio hazard waste and cleansing station (aka-the bathroom).
As always, before we begin, we must assemble and inspect our equipment, for you never know when it may save your life. Today's adventure requires a tested breathing mask and air tank, 3-ply (or better) rubber gloves that extend to the elbow, protective eye wear, snug-fitting clothes that won't get in the way, a screw driver, plunger, long-handled scrubbing brush (industrial strength is best), tweezers, pliers, a hacksaw (just in case), and various bleach or bleach-substitute cleansers in spray dispense bottles, rags, paper towels, or sponges, and at least one construction-grade plastic trash bag.
You may want to check your last will and testament before heading out, or at the very least, tell a trusted someone where you intend to go and for what purpose. Should you go missing for a few days, they will know where to begin the search.
Regardless of the house in which you reside, the bio hazard waste and cleansing station (hereafter called the b.s.) will be found behind a closed door at the end of a long, shadowed hall. Lights are often seen blinking on and off from around the cracks in the door at all hours of the day and night, but the wise and wary adventurer knows to never enter such a place without being first prepared. Affix breathing mask, eye wear, and gloves. Also, any long hair should be tied back, we are entering the b.s. zone.
The reek of wrongness hits us first upon prying open the door. Despite protective gear, it seeps through, pulling tears from our eyes and triggering the gag reflex. Be strong. Close your eyes and let your mind and body adjust slowly. Our first step into the b.s. lands on a spongy surface. Turn on the light. Check to make sure it wasn't alive.
Towels, damp and moldering, carpet the floor. The mirror along the wall shows no reflections, but do not fear--this is not urban fantasy and there are no vampires--it is only coated in grime. A special word of caution: if the toilet lid is down, be very careful when you open it. Arm yourself with toilet wand (the long-handled, industrial strength scrub brush) and the most potent cleanser in your pack. Lift lid slowly, and SPRAY, SPRAY, SPRAY! Close lid and wait five minutes. Flush and repeat. If your b.s. is equipped with a motorized venting system, do make use of it as quickly as possible. *Special Note: keep plunger handy and stand back in the event of flooding.*
While waiting for the decrustation of the toilet, open your heavy, plastic bag and systematically remove cloth debris from the floor. Notice how each layer peeled away clings to the one beneath, a special mix of hair, dust, toilet tissue, and secret ingredient x. Be sure to separate the tub toys from the laundry, for they do not fare well in the wash, rinse, dry cycle. They can, however, be zipped into a mesh lingerie bag and thrown onto the top-rack of the dishwasher if you are so inclined.
Beneath the terry cloth and robes, flannel sleepwear and toys, always be on the lookout for the perpetually missing rodent-pet. If it has been missing long enough, even the best bred hamster will lick residue from the b.s. porcelain in search of water, which may or may not spell certain doom for the creature (depending on toxicity levels therein). There is no rodent today, but here, behind the throne, we uncover the telling evidence of what happened to all the missing underwear. (Those of weaker constitutions may wish to fast at least five hours prior to adventure.) As we lift away the clinging layers of crust, we find lost toothbrushes and orthodontic appliances. Around us, a haze forms in the air similar to the atmosphere of the planet, Uranus, which combines methane and bleach in deadly proportions. In other words, time to flush again. Reposition mask if you feel at all faint.
Patches of floor are now visible, but do not be fooled into carelessness. Floor scum can be slicker than spit or stickier than an ill-aimed wad of gum beside the trash can. And speaking of which...
Time to look behind the curtain. Somewhere in the background, the theme music to 'Psycho' is playing... the veil parts and... try to contain yourself. The opaque pool of slime stems from the pit of despair, or clogged drain in layman's terms. Before tackling drain, be sure to sanitize a kneeling place along the floor, lest alien life forms (hereafter called Frank) cling to your clothing and spread to other regions of the habitation. When Frank is neutralized, utilize screwdriver and any other necessary tool to remove drain cover and begin plucking the long strings of blockage from drain. To effectively de-hair the pit of despair, tweezers or pliers, or both (along with good old fashioned elbow grease) will necessitate a two handed battle of tug-of-war to free all that is good and decent in the world. Or drain the tub, at least.
Hang tough, adventurers, we're almost finished. Remember to flush and repeat.
All that remains of the hard stuff lies in wait around the sink. Somewhere beneath a hardened shell of hair and body spray, amid the forest of unclaimed tooth and hair brushes, facial medications and herbal remedies, a pair of handles bearing 'H' and 'C' operate the indoor water supply. Frank is all over them. Be sure to spray thoroughly. If time is an issue, and if the full-body cleaning area has been detoxified, everything surrounding the upper-body cleansing station can be temporarily re-deposited to the tub. This allows proper scraping, spraying, and wiping of entire sink surface.
The cleanliness of our b.s. now compares to the public facilities of the corner gas station. Those of you who wish to quit, are justified in doing so at this time. The rest of you, gear up for an arm and leg workout as we spray the entire room down with cleanser--paying special attention to areas at and below waist level--and wipe with clean paper towels.
If, when you emerge from this arduous task, light-headed and giddy, a juvenile biped approaches with his legs crossed and panic in his eyes, you must decide whether to admit him or not.
I wouldn't. Looks like a Frank.
As always, before we begin, we must assemble and inspect our equipment, for you never know when it may save your life. Today's adventure requires a tested breathing mask and air tank, 3-ply (or better) rubber gloves that extend to the elbow, protective eye wear, snug-fitting clothes that won't get in the way, a screw driver, plunger, long-handled scrubbing brush (industrial strength is best), tweezers, pliers, a hacksaw (just in case), and various bleach or bleach-substitute cleansers in spray dispense bottles, rags, paper towels, or sponges, and at least one construction-grade plastic trash bag.
You may want to check your last will and testament before heading out, or at the very least, tell a trusted someone where you intend to go and for what purpose. Should you go missing for a few days, they will know where to begin the search.
Regardless of the house in which you reside, the bio hazard waste and cleansing station (hereafter called the b.s.) will be found behind a closed door at the end of a long, shadowed hall. Lights are often seen blinking on and off from around the cracks in the door at all hours of the day and night, but the wise and wary adventurer knows to never enter such a place without being first prepared. Affix breathing mask, eye wear, and gloves. Also, any long hair should be tied back, we are entering the b.s. zone.
The reek of wrongness hits us first upon prying open the door. Despite protective gear, it seeps through, pulling tears from our eyes and triggering the gag reflex. Be strong. Close your eyes and let your mind and body adjust slowly. Our first step into the b.s. lands on a spongy surface. Turn on the light. Check to make sure it wasn't alive.
Towels, damp and moldering, carpet the floor. The mirror along the wall shows no reflections, but do not fear--this is not urban fantasy and there are no vampires--it is only coated in grime. A special word of caution: if the toilet lid is down, be very careful when you open it. Arm yourself with toilet wand (the long-handled, industrial strength scrub brush) and the most potent cleanser in your pack. Lift lid slowly, and SPRAY, SPRAY, SPRAY! Close lid and wait five minutes. Flush and repeat. If your b.s. is equipped with a motorized venting system, do make use of it as quickly as possible. *Special Note: keep plunger handy and stand back in the event of flooding.*
While waiting for the decrustation of the toilet, open your heavy, plastic bag and systematically remove cloth debris from the floor. Notice how each layer peeled away clings to the one beneath, a special mix of hair, dust, toilet tissue, and secret ingredient x. Be sure to separate the tub toys from the laundry, for they do not fare well in the wash, rinse, dry cycle. They can, however, be zipped into a mesh lingerie bag and thrown onto the top-rack of the dishwasher if you are so inclined.
Beneath the terry cloth and robes, flannel sleepwear and toys, always be on the lookout for the perpetually missing rodent-pet. If it has been missing long enough, even the best bred hamster will lick residue from the b.s. porcelain in search of water, which may or may not spell certain doom for the creature (depending on toxicity levels therein). There is no rodent today, but here, behind the throne, we uncover the telling evidence of what happened to all the missing underwear. (Those of weaker constitutions may wish to fast at least five hours prior to adventure.) As we lift away the clinging layers of crust, we find lost toothbrushes and orthodontic appliances. Around us, a haze forms in the air similar to the atmosphere of the planet, Uranus, which combines methane and bleach in deadly proportions. In other words, time to flush again. Reposition mask if you feel at all faint.
Patches of floor are now visible, but do not be fooled into carelessness. Floor scum can be slicker than spit or stickier than an ill-aimed wad of gum beside the trash can. And speaking of which...
Time to look behind the curtain. Somewhere in the background, the theme music to 'Psycho' is playing... the veil parts and... try to contain yourself. The opaque pool of slime stems from the pit of despair, or clogged drain in layman's terms. Before tackling drain, be sure to sanitize a kneeling place along the floor, lest alien life forms (hereafter called Frank) cling to your clothing and spread to other regions of the habitation. When Frank is neutralized, utilize screwdriver and any other necessary tool to remove drain cover and begin plucking the long strings of blockage from drain. To effectively de-hair the pit of despair, tweezers or pliers, or both (along with good old fashioned elbow grease) will necessitate a two handed battle of tug-of-war to free all that is good and decent in the world. Or drain the tub, at least.
Hang tough, adventurers, we're almost finished. Remember to flush and repeat.
All that remains of the hard stuff lies in wait around the sink. Somewhere beneath a hardened shell of hair and body spray, amid the forest of unclaimed tooth and hair brushes, facial medications and herbal remedies, a pair of handles bearing 'H' and 'C' operate the indoor water supply. Frank is all over them. Be sure to spray thoroughly. If time is an issue, and if the full-body cleaning area has been detoxified, everything surrounding the upper-body cleansing station can be temporarily re-deposited to the tub. This allows proper scraping, spraying, and wiping of entire sink surface.
The cleanliness of our b.s. now compares to the public facilities of the corner gas station. Those of you who wish to quit, are justified in doing so at this time. The rest of you, gear up for an arm and leg workout as we spray the entire room down with cleanser--paying special attention to areas at and below waist level--and wipe with clean paper towels.
If, when you emerge from this arduous task, light-headed and giddy, a juvenile biped approaches with his legs crossed and panic in his eyes, you must decide whether to admit him or not.
I wouldn't. Looks like a Frank.
Saturday, January 9, 2010
Date Night
It is a rare and wondrous thing, going on a date, something that requires the careful forgetting of everything I am supposed to be doing in order to disappear for a few hours and enjoy myself. Not that sitting at home doing the dishes isn't fun, but... well, the occasional dinner not fixed my me and a movie I haven't already seen ten thousand times are kind of special.
The way it begins is standing around in the kitchen, cooking slop for the masses. The elusive date partner happens to be nearby and the topic of what to do for the evening comes up (he brought it up, not me. For some reason, I don't wonder what I'm going to do each night because I'm always doing it.) The subject of movies comes out, along with a couple of titles playing in theaters that I actually want to see--Hollywood makes a few of those every now and again.
"Will you go?" he asks, to which I reply yes, after checking the clock. It's 5:30.
By six, I've fed the hungry, clothed the naked, and left specific instructions with the sitter, who (much to her dismay) happens to be my first-born. Out we go, into the frigid night. I'm not exactly dressed for a night out, or to be seen for that matter, but I'm smiling insanely any way. In the car, the discussion turns to which theater we will visit. X is closer, but Y's movie begins sooner... blah, blah, blah. I don't care, so long as we get there before the movie begins. The atmosphere is in no way romantic as we discuss bills, dental appointments, and other mundane aspects of life. But we're holding hands, so cover your eyes.
The details following are neither exciting nor important. Suffice it to say, we saw a great movie, had a good time, and drove home safely several hours later. At 10:30, we pull into the driveway. The house is still there--always a good sign. All the lights are on, but there are no police or rescue vehicles, so the night is a success. Inside, children are running like mad, shrieking for joy (don't know why) except for the one who, for no reason, became ill the moment I left the house. Go figure. The baby's diaper has not been changed, his pajamas are soaked through. The bathroom shows evidence of sickly visits, and all the unsickly are crawling out of the woodwork to express their joy at my return, their dismay at not being taken along, their complaints of what happened in my absence (so and so did such and such). The babysitter is surfing the web, oblivious to all.
I hear none of them in the din, but head for the kitchen to put away food and perform necessary prep work for the cleaning that will consume most of the next day, and the next, and on and on for probably a week. The magic words of 'Go to bed' ring from my mouth, and peace settles over the world once again. Some time later, as I fall into bed, I think I muttered my gratitude for the short reprieve from 'mommy', but it was probably so softly that nobody heard.
So, once again, for the record: Thank you, honey. Are you free tonight?
The way it begins is standing around in the kitchen, cooking slop for the masses. The elusive date partner happens to be nearby and the topic of what to do for the evening comes up (he brought it up, not me. For some reason, I don't wonder what I'm going to do each night because I'm always doing it.) The subject of movies comes out, along with a couple of titles playing in theaters that I actually want to see--Hollywood makes a few of those every now and again.
"Will you go?" he asks, to which I reply yes, after checking the clock. It's 5:30.
By six, I've fed the hungry, clothed the naked, and left specific instructions with the sitter, who (much to her dismay) happens to be my first-born. Out we go, into the frigid night. I'm not exactly dressed for a night out, or to be seen for that matter, but I'm smiling insanely any way. In the car, the discussion turns to which theater we will visit. X is closer, but Y's movie begins sooner... blah, blah, blah. I don't care, so long as we get there before the movie begins. The atmosphere is in no way romantic as we discuss bills, dental appointments, and other mundane aspects of life. But we're holding hands, so cover your eyes.
The details following are neither exciting nor important. Suffice it to say, we saw a great movie, had a good time, and drove home safely several hours later. At 10:30, we pull into the driveway. The house is still there--always a good sign. All the lights are on, but there are no police or rescue vehicles, so the night is a success. Inside, children are running like mad, shrieking for joy (don't know why) except for the one who, for no reason, became ill the moment I left the house. Go figure. The baby's diaper has not been changed, his pajamas are soaked through. The bathroom shows evidence of sickly visits, and all the unsickly are crawling out of the woodwork to express their joy at my return, their dismay at not being taken along, their complaints of what happened in my absence (so and so did such and such). The babysitter is surfing the web, oblivious to all.
I hear none of them in the din, but head for the kitchen to put away food and perform necessary prep work for the cleaning that will consume most of the next day, and the next, and on and on for probably a week. The magic words of 'Go to bed' ring from my mouth, and peace settles over the world once again. Some time later, as I fall into bed, I think I muttered my gratitude for the short reprieve from 'mommy', but it was probably so softly that nobody heard.
So, once again, for the record: Thank you, honey. Are you free tonight?
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
Thrillseekers: Beware!
Because there are no thrills to be found here. Big, dramatic sigh. I wish I had something better to say than, "I'm cleaning my house and working on edits," but that is the sad truth. I like working on edits, don't like cleaning the house, and both need doing, so, which do you suppose will get more attention today?
Those who guessed 'the two-year-old' guessed correctly.
However, for your entertainment today, I am posting the first chapter of my YA fantasy, THE CURSE, which has been rewritten from the original. Constructive criticism is always appreciated, so if you have any, please comment.
[post removed by author}
Those who guessed 'the two-year-old' guessed correctly.
However, for your entertainment today, I am posting the first chapter of my YA fantasy, THE CURSE, which has been rewritten from the original. Constructive criticism is always appreciated, so if you have any, please comment.
[post removed by author}
Friday, January 1, 2010
Resolution Revolution
It's that time of year again, and I'd like to start out the ol' blog by wishing my friends a hearty Happy New Year. So many are trying to get published, and so many deserve it, let's hope to see a few dreams come true this year.
As for the other business at hand, tradition dictates that a resolution be made at the beginning of every year, preferably something that will improve one's life in some way. Soooo.... while I could easily throw out something that makes me look good (or not) that would have happened any way: I resolve to continue writing at any cost, love my children, become a bigger pain in the butt: those things don't count.
I've been thinking about making a goal to read 100 books during the course of the year, but I'm not sure if I could actually reach that goal without it cutting in my write time. I'm terribly obsessive about stupid things, like any time I 'resolve' to clean a particular room in my house and the absentee persons who keep stuff in said room aren't available to comment on whether their stuff is useless trash or terribly important and should not have gone to the dump... well, perhaps you see my meaning. If I were to resolve never to shower until after I've done my 30-minutes of exercise each day... ahem, (yeah, I've been there, too)... didn't last long.
If I make an impossible resolution, I'm sure to fail, and failure never made anyone feel better except if a valuable lesson is learned. And even then, you're not happy about failing. Lessons learned are like the booby prize, the 'I participated' certificate that they give all the 'losers' at the science fairs, and I'm not aiming for mediocrity, here. I've got my eye on the BIG banana, luscious and golden, just get me a ladder...
So, there is an art to making resolutions. It must be something worthwhile, or why bother. It must be attainable, or you're certain to fail. But it must also be HARD. Why? Because nothing gained without blood, sweat, and tears (or an equal amount of less-messy effort) can retain a significant value long enough to satisfy that horrible craving we have to be challenged.
Considering all this, I must be very careful in my wording of this year's resolution, most especially since I'm putting it out here for all the world to see. Here goes:
On this first day of January, in the year of our Lord 2010, I hereby resolve to read no less than fifty-two (52) new books that may or may not improve my mind. I resolve to finish at least one of my book projects and collect at least thirty rejections or one acceptance for my work. I resolve to have my entire house clean for at least one day (24 consecutive hours) during the course of the year. I will make each of my children something special for their birthdays. The rest is blah, blah... diet, exercise, play with friends, etc..
There it is, out in print so I can't change my mind. I will not come back and edit this post, though I may make derisive comments about it later. Cleaning the house may require duct tape, but I'll be sure to let you know.
As for the other business at hand, tradition dictates that a resolution be made at the beginning of every year, preferably something that will improve one's life in some way. Soooo.... while I could easily throw out something that makes me look good (or not) that would have happened any way: I resolve to continue writing at any cost, love my children, become a bigger pain in the butt: those things don't count.
I've been thinking about making a goal to read 100 books during the course of the year, but I'm not sure if I could actually reach that goal without it cutting in my write time. I'm terribly obsessive about stupid things, like any time I 'resolve' to clean a particular room in my house and the absentee persons who keep stuff in said room aren't available to comment on whether their stuff is useless trash or terribly important and should not have gone to the dump... well, perhaps you see my meaning. If I were to resolve never to shower until after I've done my 30-minutes of exercise each day... ahem, (yeah, I've been there, too)... didn't last long.
If I make an impossible resolution, I'm sure to fail, and failure never made anyone feel better except if a valuable lesson is learned. And even then, you're not happy about failing. Lessons learned are like the booby prize, the 'I participated' certificate that they give all the 'losers' at the science fairs, and I'm not aiming for mediocrity, here. I've got my eye on the BIG banana, luscious and golden, just get me a ladder...
So, there is an art to making resolutions. It must be something worthwhile, or why bother. It must be attainable, or you're certain to fail. But it must also be HARD. Why? Because nothing gained without blood, sweat, and tears (or an equal amount of less-messy effort) can retain a significant value long enough to satisfy that horrible craving we have to be challenged.
Considering all this, I must be very careful in my wording of this year's resolution, most especially since I'm putting it out here for all the world to see. Here goes:
On this first day of January, in the year of our Lord 2010, I hereby resolve to read no less than fifty-two (52) new books that may or may not improve my mind. I resolve to finish at least one of my book projects and collect at least thirty rejections or one acceptance for my work. I resolve to have my entire house clean for at least one day (24 consecutive hours) during the course of the year. I will make each of my children something special for their birthdays. The rest is blah, blah... diet, exercise, play with friends, etc..
There it is, out in print so I can't change my mind. I will not come back and edit this post, though I may make derisive comments about it later. Cleaning the house may require duct tape, but I'll be sure to let you know.
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