Every year at about this time I realize: I have accomplished nearly none of my New Year’s resolutions.
And this year, I’m sorry to admit, has been no exception.
The extra weight has not come off. I still smoke, still drink. My workout plan has been woefully inadequate.
In fairness to myself, my writing goals have gone a little better. My blog’s been kept up, Sunday stories have arrived on time, and NaNoWriMo went well, with room in the schedule for a few longer stories to send to various short-fiction markets. My work has appeared in a few venues, not huge ones, but ones I genuinely like. Overall I’m unashamed of that side of it, but still, I can’t help thinking I could have done better there too.
And don’t even get me started on my day job…
…in fact, of all the promises I made myself this time last year, I can only think of one that I could reasonably list as an unqualified success.
To like myself, in spite of my failings, and never second guess myself no matter what mistakes I might make.
Fortunately, at the end of the day, that really is the only one that matters.