New Year Resolutions 2024 Edition

It’s that time of year when I have the sudden urge to start shouting—new year, new me! Resolutions to go to the gym five times a week and wake up early to write an hour every day get bandied around with pretentious gravity. I map out Big Important Plans to become healthier or how to start down a fool proof path to becoming the next Neil Gaiman.

February comes around and I find myself at the gym less and less. I mean, who wants to compete for equipment with that muscle-bound bro who sneers at my spare-tire jiggle? It’s fucking embarrassing—I can’t wait for him to get old and see how it is. Besides, I can do sit ups and lunges and burpees at home. I won’t, but I can. Maybe later. Soon, I begin justifying sleeping in by promising to write for TWO hours the next day. I’m a middle-aged woman—I really need my beauty sleep. There isn’t enough concealer in all of Sephora to cover the dark smudges under my eyes when I’m overtired.

Before I know it, I find myself with unnaturally orange fingers from eating Cheetos directly out of a party-sized bag and zoning out with a fluffy paranormal mystery novel. The writing can wait until tomorrow.  Or maybe not tomorrow—the book’s just getting good, and I think the siren did it. But I’ll get around to getting some words out. Eventually.

But seriously, concrete resolutions are inherently flawed for people like me. I put ridiculous expectations on myself to succeed. It’s become tied pretty strongly to my sense of self-worth. And I accomplish just enough that I fool myself into thinking that I should be successful all the time. The problem is that my stupidly puffed-up notion that I can do means that failing to meet my goals can knock me right off my high horse. When you’re all of 5’2”, that’s a long fall.

If I tell myself that I’m going to send out 100 subs in a year, but life gets in the way (as it inevitably does for anyone who, you know, has a day job and responsibilities and relationships, etc,) and I only do 99, I’m going to spiral, even though 99 is still pretty damned good. The tantrum will be ugly. A full on, Princess Buttercup, “I will never sub again” sulk.

So, for 2024, when it comes to writing, I’m going to stop self-sabotaging with goals that have the potential to make me the unwilling MC in a psychodrama. Instead, I plan to commit to shifts in behavior and attitude. Here are the Big Three:

Learn MoreTake More RisksTrust Myself More

See, I said more. That’s not as quantifiable, but far less likely to send me down the dark road of disgust and self-loathing. Hey, at least I’m self-aware!

For those of you who are still here reading this diatribe, may the Eldritch Gods bless you. Thanks for sticking around—your eyes only look a little glazed over. Over the next few weeks, I’m going to be discussing what those three things mean for me. Maybe my Three fans will follow along, but it’s mostly for me to keep myself engaged in the process. But if you are one of the Three, or even a potential Fourth follower, I hope you’ll pipe in and share your thoughts in the comments as well.

Stay tuned and Happy New Year! What are your goals for 2024? How do you plan to become your best writing self?