I’m hearing reports from my friends about the “Twilight Zone Christmas”, which is horribly appropriate in most cases. Mine was fairly normal, even with the electrical outage, but it didn’t really feel like Christmas at all. And Friday surely doesn’t feel like New Year’s Eve.
That means 2005 is right around the corner, so to speak. And I am still lacking in resolutions and an updated goal list. Ack.
I could say my excuse is that I’ve been a bit busy lately, but in truth, I could have worked one out by now.
My problem is that the fact that I now own a house hasn’t quite sunk in yet.
Maybe after Storage is empty and Bekah and Ethan move in and we’re done unpacking and moving, it will sink in. But I think the main problem is that a major goal has been crossed off my list with nothing much to replace it.
I’ve never been a very far-reaching person. I like to make goals I think are reachable and ones that are specific enough to be crossed off a list. I’m not after fame or fortune, but I’d like to be financially self-sufficient enough to afford nice things for even nicer prices. (Even if I were rich, I would still shop at Goodwill.)
It doesn’t take much to make me happy. I don’t like recognition or acknowledgement, and I’m quite happy to be fairly anonymous. (There’s more freedom in anonymity.)
The real reason why I haven’t pursued a ‘professional’ writing career is because I don’t like to be pigeonholed or rushed into choosing something I don’t want to do. At the moment, I can write pretty much what I want, when I want, where I want, how I want, and why I want and still get it published. I’m not beholden to any single publisher. (Except for already-sold series.)
I don’t have to jump on the bandwagon-of-the-moment, I can choose to jump on the bandwagon-of-the-moment. (Meaning, I wrote Counting the Stars to see if I could, not because it’s a popular genre.)
I don’t really care what other writers think about my publishing choices. They’re my choices, not theirs, and I made them for me and my life, not theirs.
That may sound arrogant, but that’s the way it is.
I don’t watch TV, so I am spared a lot of drek. I drank tea before it was deemed good for you. I wear secondhand clothing because it’s cheaper than buying it at the stores, and the clothes last just as long.
I buy things to last. And I have a problem buying something new when the old item works just fine for what I want to use it for.
My job is my job, not my life or my spouse. I work 40 hours a week, every week, and forget it as soon as I go home. It pays the bills. That’s the first important part. It’s only mildly irritating on most days. That’s the second important part.
I do not define myself by what I do to make a living, but by what I want to do.
I make lists. I make lists because without them, the normal life stuff like buying groceries and paying bills would go right out of my head. I’d exist on cereal if I didn’t want to bother with fixing myself meals. I’d always have more important things on my mind.
I like convenience, only in the respect that whatever it is takes less time away from what I really want to be doing.
I’d like my books to be the ones you return to like you return to an old sweater full of holes that is still too comfortable to toss.
This is me. I’m not fashionable, pretty, or well-versed in recent entertainment events. I could care less if the latest Hollywood heartthrob has to go to rehab. I don’t want care.
If you are my friend, you’re an interesting person, but sometimes I forget to answer emails and it isn’t your fault at all.
Sometimes I make hasty decisions. Sometimes I let other people make my decisions for me. I know this is a bad idea.
This is me. I don’t want to be anything else. I can’t be anything else. Just me.
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