You know. The time of year when we look back and take stock of our successes. And failures.
The time of year when we look forward, hitch up our pants, and set goals.
I hate it.
It’s that whole goal thing. Anyone who read my last post (Lying Fallow) knows that I don’t react well to too much pressure. And goal setting is definitely too much pressure for me. I don’t even do resolutions, having learned that any resolution I make in January won’t last to February.
I realize that many, many people thrive on setting goals and making resolutions. On New Year’s Day, I spoke with my friend Karen Abrahamson (a wonderful writer of urban fantasies with unique settings and premises). She happily rattled off all her writing goals for 2014, which included two new novels, a new novella series, multiple short stories… and then publishing all of them.
Hives broke out on my face.
You couldn’t pay me enough to deliberately set my anxiety bar higher than it already is, but for her, it works. She wrote half a MILLION new words last year (excuse me—I need to find a paper bag in which to breathe for a minute). She is a goal-oriented writer, always striving to write better and bigger stories.
She exhausts me.
But I guess I can’t judge her by my standards, just as she can’t judge me by hers (thank goodness). I am finally figuring out what approach works best for me, so that I don’t overcommit and destroy my fragile little ego when I disappoint myself. And I need to trust other writers to know best what works for them.
What about you? Does a lack of goals make you feel untethered? Or does setting goals make you want to take that tether and hang yourself with it?
P.S. Here’s my latest cover, for my upcoming novel release (February): Obeah. See? I do have goals. Bite-sized, manageable ones.