To Be a Writer…WRITE

I’ve experienced four US census counts by now, and have made at least as many New Years resolutions. Apparently I’m a slow learner, because I keep making them, breaking them, and then beating myself up about it. The best thing I can say about how my resolutions have evolved is that at least I have quit with that ‘lose 10 pounds’ or ‘be in better shape in my 30s than I was on my 20s’ crap.

What is it about this dumb day that makes us all lose our minds and decide that NOW it’s time to start over? Time is technically a man-made construct, so there is zero difference between September 9th, July 27th or January 1.

And yet…every time we switch out last year’s Doug the Pug calendar to this year’s Wildlife of the Serengeti…we resolve. And resolve. And resolve.

EVERY YEAR for the past THREE years I have ‘resolved’ to write a short story every month and self-publish a book for my friends and family.

How many have I written?

You got it…a big, fat goose egg.

Again, slow learner, but maybe I’ve figured out part of the problem…I was holding myself to the standard of writing for others, and that god forsaken Inner Critic would inevitably, indubitably, and not-so-insidiously creep up my back with its reptilian talon claws, perch on my trapezius and dig those needle feet into my deltoids for solid purchase, and whisper (that I was a) sweet nothing(s) sussorously into my ear.

And for the past four census counts, I listened to that lithe liar.

So here’s my resolution for the new year: to write for me. I’ll put it out there; I’ll let the world see it; but this is MY year, and the Inner Critic Lizard can, quite frankly, go fuck itself (it’s genderless).

This year I write for me. This year…I write.

~HM