It is now 5pm on the 1st January 2018, and the ‘new me’ still hasn’t shown up. I’m patiently awaiting my total transformation, but I’m not sure it’s coming. In fact, I seem to have disimproved since 2017. I swear to God I’ve gotten fatter, grumpier and stupider. And I have a throbbing headache, after drinking ONE solitary drink to ring in the new year. ONE DRINK because I thought ‘I’m going to be a good girl and ring in the New Year the right way…start as I mean to go on’.
One drink and I’m crippled with a headache! What brand new fuckery is this, 2018???
Am I to be punished for my virtue? If so, I see no point being virtuous (* hastily retrieves all the ‘bad food’ out of the bin).
To add insult to injury, 2018 has cursed me with a pigeon, who has craftily camouflaged himself in a nearby tree. This pigeon insists on tormenting me with his incessant hooting. I didn’t know that pigeons could hoot, but I’m no happier for having acquired this new information.
FUCK YOU PIGEON AND FUCK YOU 2018!
Anyway, though I may await change, I know damn well nothing will happen without me making it happen. Before I made the decision to write my first book I’d approach every January 1st with a list of resolutions as long as my arm. One by one, I’d abandon each of them. In the end, conclude that New Years’ resolutions are a load of shite, an annual exercise in mass-insanity.
But this year I’ve had a change of heart. I’ve decided to join the party. The beginning of a brand spanking new year is a good time to take stock of where you are, where you came from and where you’re going. This year, I’ve decided to make some resolutions. I’m doing this because I finally know how to go about achieving them. 2017 was the year I finished my first novel. The thing I had planned and failed to do every year before that. What I’ve realised is the same principles apply to all goals:
(a) I have to really, really want to achieve them and commit 100%
(b) I have to be SMART
(c) I will achieve them by making slow, steady, incremental progress
I have three big goals for this year. One of which is to write my second novel. I’m afraid that I won’t achieve it. I was afraid before I started writing novel #1 but the fear was different then. It was a fear of the unknown. A fear that my resolution would fall by the wayside, as it had done so many times before. The fear is different this time. It stems purely from the knowledge that writing novel #2 is going to be a hard, rocky, lonely road. But at least I know what is possible when I commit to it.
But before I start, I gotta do something about that fucking pigeon.
(*Googles gun laws in Ireland).