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.
At least the one that matters most was accomplished. :)
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