Primary goal for 2019: Convince this little lady that she wants to live. We're doing the massive IBD flare thing again and she's stopped eating. Again. Usually we right this ship before a trip to the ER. Not this time. And just as well. She's developing heart disease, so when she was released to come home, she came home with a referral to a cardiologist. So there's that to navigate.
Oh. You meant goals I had actual control over? Fine. Find and reclaim my writer mojo. That's it. That's the goal. Totally specific, measurable, achievable, realistic and time sensitive.
The last two years have been a clu--uh--challenge. I wrote, yes, but published nothing. Which isn't to say there haven't been projects finished. There have. They just weren't quite right. They've stewed enough that I know how to make them right. So getting those fixes in and the stuff published in one form or another is on the list for this year. As is finishing off the SFR series. It may not all get released this year, but if I can get the last draft in the can by end of year, I'll count the year a success. I won't claim to have made my process bullet proof, because in no way do I wish to challenge the universe to prove me wrong. So let's just say I have an adaptive system that has built in guides for getting back on track when life goes pear-shaped.
Armed with my trusty bullet journal, I record my word counts every day and I know precisely how many words I need in order to stay on track. There are built in fudge days because killer migraines and family emergencies happen and I'm one of the lucky ones who gets to care about family emergencies. I won't claim any kind of luck for the killer migraines. I'm still trying to get the insurance company to let me give Aimovig a try.
Regardless. The year is mapped out. Each story gets a shot. If I keep my word count goals, I'll make a one million word mark with no issue.
So raise your cup of tea. Here's to a New Year and to finishing what we start.
