Dear Me

Dear Me,

I come to the beginning of a year with fear and trepidation, but also with hope and purpose. Here, in place of resolutions, I will mark the goals and the intentions I have now. Maybe in twelve months I will assess whether this exercise was helpful in accomplishing them or merely a reminder of my failure.

I am writing this down because writing is what I do. I write things down to remember them or to make them tangible or to invest them with value. Why I do it doesn't seem to matter. Suffice it to say I write. I intend to write more this year. I intend to write better this year. I intend to accomplish writing more and better by scheduling time to do it.

Some things that have been started already will be continued. The novella about Jael will make progress this year. I still have to work out all the kinks and formulate a strong enough rationale for her to kill Sisera that my conscience does not nag me, but, since she is the one who did it not me, I think I can do it. I still have to transcribe the letters to Lucy. Family history is important, but the letters are really fun. I have been stalled because it is really a lot of work.

I have poems and short stories I want to write, but that is a lot of work too. Scheduling is where the challenge comes. I have a newsletter to get out once a month. Boy, my time is filling up fast. And in the midst of all this writing I am scheduling there is this life I have to live. I just signed up to work out at a gym. It's important, too. At least, the doctor says it is. Control that blood sugar!

The rest of the life includes things like choir practice, teaching, cooking, errands, caring for sick people and flying kites. There is nothing here I can leave out. Maybe I could sleep less. That one doesn't sound too promising: when I can't sleep, I don't get anything else done either. But hey, it's a thought. Let's try that. Sleep less.

Signed

Me