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.
