Hoh boy. Right now, the decade is winding down and we don’t even know what to call it. The 2010s? But “twenty-tens” sounds silly, and “twenty-teens” sounds mouthy. I’ve personally been calling it the “yeah that happened” decade, but that’s not the greatest name. Poor little unnamed decade. Maybe that’s why you’ve sucked so very, very much.
In true form, the Romance Writers of America — the only professional organization that allows someone of my meager earnings to join — is imploding. Google it. It’s a mess. I have no idea how they’ll crawl out of this, but one thing they managed to do is make the last few breaths of the 2010s (twenty-teens?) all about them.
Which is maybe what writers do? We make our worlds all about us? Is that what we do? I feel like, if that is the case, I really need to apologize to my small cadre of loyal readers, because I sincerely did not mean to mess up your brain like this. It’s not you, it’s me.
Which brings me, in a very round-about way, to resolutions. In 2020, what would I like to see or do more of? Well, I hereby resolve the following:
—I will live in the possible. The future is iffy, the past sucks, and the present is problematic at best. But the possible? That still does and always will hold magic. The blank page, the star-eyed baby, the first step on the path, the first note of a symphony: potentiality is promise is magic. I believe.
—I will go to church. Not, um, a building with some dude in a dress talking at me. I mean my church. The church of words. See, my therapist recently decoded something crucial in my brain and explained that writing, to me, is church. It is the thing that gives shape to my spirit. I suspect this is the case with a lot of writers. So hey, if that’s you also—or if your church is art of performance or knitting or gardening or horses — get your booty to church. Do the thing that makes you real. You don’t have to share any of it for the magic to happen. Just do the thing.
—I will but less. So, a lot of times in 2019 (and 2018, if we’re honest), I found myself saying some variation of, “Yes, that’s wonderful, but…” But, I’m old. But, I’m fat. But, I have no skills. But, my writing career has devolved into something heartbreaking. But I’m tired. But. But but. But stop. I mean, what would the world look like if I never used the word “but”? “Yes that’s wonderful.” “Yes, I wrote some books I’m proud of.” “Yes, some folks even liked them, they were reviewed well, they won awards.” “Yes, I can still see.” “Yes, I can still think.” “Yes, I can still write stories.” So, hey, self: no buts.
—I will cut me some slack. If my kids do stuff that negatively impacts their future? I will not take the blame. If readers don’t want to partake of my latest fictional offering? I will not consider it judgment of my talent or potential. I will instead think of it as just, hey, that’s the world eh. If my jeans look fluffy or my face looks wrinkly or I don’t do whatever the thing is on time and to everyone else’s satisfaction.. well. I will say sorry. I will endeavor to do better. And then I will pick my big-girl self up and just keep living. People make mistakes. I will make mistakes. Mistakes are not the end of the world.
— I will love more. I mean, right now, it feels like I could not possibly love more — my kids, my partner, my family, my home town, my pets, my friends, my mom, my writing tribe, the people in RWA whose whole social and professional universe is fracturing, the people in Australia who are suffering through wildfires (again: google it). But the fact is that there is no limit on love. I can always love more. And what would that feel like? My God, it would be awesome.
So, okay, writers, I see a bright, shiny 2020 heading straight for us, and it doesn't deserve all our baggage. It is bright and beautiful. So hit me with all your resolutions. I will not say but. I will believe. Promise.
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