Goals. Resolutions. Whatever you call them, many of us set new, higher, more challenging expectations for ourselves at the beginning of a new year.
As you saw, I did mine visually in the form of a goal board. But all you seemed to notice were the shoes.
Yes, shoes figured prominently for both literal and figurative meanings, but what you never would have guessed, given how little I have written in the new year (as in, this is my first 2012 post) is that I made some writing resolutions as well.
Of course, I resolve to write more.
Last night, tired as I was, as I was falling asleep a post was taking shape. I thought about getting up and retrieving the computer, but then I made the age-old writer’s mistake of thinking my idea was so brilliant that I would remember it all in the morning.
I was wrong.
I resolve to write my ideas down when they come to me, even if it’s after midnight.
As Congress continues its journey toward deeper and deeper dysfunction, my job is going to feel akin to waking up every morning and beating my head against a wall.
I resolve to use writing as a means to personal and professional satisfaction.
When it comes to the blog, I would love to add an outfit-of-the-day component, though that option may be on hold until I find a boyfriend who can take daily photos of said outfits. (Honestly, I would probably suggest he take a week’s worth of shots over the weekend that I trickle out Monday-Friday since there is rarely surplus time in my weekday mornings. Doing so would be great for wardrobe planning purposes, and might give me more precious time in the morning to eat breakfast or sleep later.)
There is a goal I’ve had in my head since I was oh about 15 years old, and that is to write a book. How angry was I when Bridget Jones Diary came out. I could have written that book. I essentially did write that book in the form of the scores of journals I kept in my neurotic 20s. Sigh.
Last winter, when I was confined to the house in the back brace, I got about 10,000 words down on the latest idea in my head. But then the doctor cleared me to sit and drive, which essentially lifted my social confinement, and I haven’t touched these novel beginnings since then.
I resolve to finish my book.
I probably only have about 70,000 words to go. Give me ten days of solitude in a gorgeous setting that doesn’t have sightseeing distractions, wireless coverage or Congress but does have good end-of-the-day rewards in the form of wine and food and I know I can get it done.
Or find a new reason to bang my head against the wall.
Some people belong to book club. I’ve heard of dinner club, cookbook club and wine club. But one thing I had never heard of until I made friends in Cheverly is Weekend Warriors.
We rarely write letters anymore. When was the last time you received a newsy, handwritten letter in the snail-mail from a dear friend or family member? (The only one who writes to me these days is the woman from the Tom Ford cosmetic counter at Bergdorf where I bought two lipsticks over a year ago. It’s nice that she still sends me the occasional note with color swatches and samples, but for once I would love an unexpected letter in the mail.) Do you remember the last time you were excited to retrieve the mail because you were anticipating correspondence from someone you had recently written to? On that note, when was the last time you actually wrote a letter?
I know that it seems very department store of me to be thinking past the next holiday (though I’m not quite as bad as retailers who have been on Christmas since Labor Day) but for weeks I have been unable get my brain off of Thanksgiving. While it is undeniably my favorite holiday (is there any other day that is so centered around food?) this year I am particularly excited because for the first time, I’m going to host.
the chelsea chronicles 