Smells Like New Years Resolve

It's that time again. Time to sort through the turds of last years goals, polish them off and bronze 'em like baby shoes. Not to say that I didn't have major shit go down in my life; this year was heavy with transition and accomplishment (signed my first publication contract, started and finished the novel, quit smoking), The crap of which I speak is the turds of goals unmet-as opposed to the turds of future failure, and those of smoldering regret. For these are the three turds of New Years resolution. Gaze upon them solemnly, lest you be visited. As I have been…

Resolution No. 1:

Writing: Get the Undead Socialite published. I'm not so naive as to expect, my first bit of interest to garner a book contract. If Penguin comes back with a negative response; I'm moving on. What's the magic number? 13. I'll keep 13 queries in rotation. Finish my Young Adult book: The Trouble with the Living and start pitch work. Sort through and edit the short fiction and spray them across the journal and magazine publishers like green grass goo, and see what grows.

Resolution No. 2

At 38, I'm determined to lose my baby fat. I have been successful in the past–multiple times–and have failed (see sin wave). I'm at my heaviest, right now, burying the office chair wheels deep into the carpet–they're probably peeking at the sub-floor. This is the year! The weight is coming off for good–one way or another. I won't be happy until I'm emaciated, drawing sustenance from an IV (lo-cal, of course).

Don't let the turds surpass the achievements people!