When last year's effort seemed to breeze into and out of my life, I marveled at how few people were in the winner's circle with me. Dis wuz E-Z! Why didn't everyone come through with 50K?
Well, I know now why. To write a novel is very hard work, made harder by lack of planning and lack of commitment. Last year, I spent the last two weeks of October writing out note cards, doing character sketches, playing with outlines - everything allowed in the "rules". This year, I didn't even settle on a story until November 3rd, and it took me two weeks to convince myself that it was the right story. Hell, I'm still not convinced it's a full novel, and those thoughts in the back of my mind are making me question every word, every scene, every character I create. I'm struggling in a way I don't remember ever struggling to write before.
And this makes me a winner. You know why? Because now I truly appreciate how hard the act of creation can be, and I cherish every angst about my craft because it is a growing pain. I'm a better writer for it, and I will keep writing no matter the pain it causes.
I'm a winner.
Hannah Howell (author) posted this on her Facebook wall with the added speculation that it should be a much harsher (presumably four-letter) word.
Last year at this time I had a stack of notecards, all sorted by the colors that indicated their information (green for character info, blue of potential quotes/interactions, red for scene details, etc). There was a sense of "Will November First ever arrive??" I contemplated cheating by starting early and just counting that which I'd written as of the official start date.
This year - as veteran of a NaNo 09 win - I'm both cocky and distracted. Back then I knew I'd have no problem. Right now I'm worried that there won't be enough novelty to keep me inspired or that I won't find the going as easy as last year because of my commitment to other projects taking up my available time.
I have the excuses lined up, of course. "Whirlwind trip to Illinois" coming up. "Too many stories in my head" for me to decide upon. "Committed to my volunteer work" which is more necessary that my personal goals.
Fortunately I recognize these as excuses. They are - in reality - no different from the challenges of other WriMo's (or is it NaNo-ers?) and like the other participants, I simply have to organize my plate to fit all my victuals.
Or I can treat NaNoWriMo like a dessert; it will be on a separate plate, waiting for me to finish my main plate so I can enjoy it like a reward.
I nodded with understanding, recognizing that some bit of information had been presented to her in the past that changed her life forever.
"So you don't drink anything but bottled water? Even in your own home you don't draw from the tap?" I asked, pretending to be unclear on her meaning.
"Not for drinking. Ugh! Poison! The stuff the city sends through the pipes is nasty. It will give you any number of noxious bugs immediately, and if you manage to avoid that, the chemical treatments in it will give you cancer."
Then she took a long angry pull from her cigarette, a last draw down to the filter.
Again I nodded with understanding.
I've drawn a complete blank about additional wisdom from my mother, and the WAG #25 assignment has left me uninspired to the topic, so I thought I'd post a photo I took this past weekend while chasing steam locomotives down near Chama, New Mexico.
This image was captured lying in a ditch near a grade crossing. Believe me, I checked carefully for rattlers and bullsnakes before settling in. Also, I was certain that a young man, who had set himself up by the RR crossing sign was going to be in my photos, but the train was kind enough to obscure him while still allowing the RR sign to be seen. Timing is everything. :)
I took Sunday off because it was simply too nice to be inside.
I'm posting late today because the weather here in CO was a big blow. There's a personal weather station up the street (that posts its info on the InterNets)which was showing gusts of 30 mph and sustained winds of 20. We've had brown-outs around here often enough that I dared not have the computer on, in case we lost power. I had a UPS but that failed just last week.
I think the other reason I've been lackadaisical about posting is the WAG #23 I put up the other day. Part of it was the fact it hit close to home, being that the dear husband and I are motorcyclists. The other part was the inspiration of the story, which was someone on Facebook who I feel takes too many chances.
The world is a dangerous place, and I am sometimes bothered by my relative safety. I have at least three friends (possibly more) who have had issues with stalkers. Granted, they're all better looking than I am, but this has never been something I've worried about. Do I put a big social shield out? Perhaps I exude a sense of "Don't Fuck With Me?" that keeps all but the nastiest people away?
The Dear Husband and I were discussing a news story he saw about the Colorado Preppers. One of the members was boasting how he and his family had enough food to tide them over for a year, in preparation for a disaster. It seemed a bit excessive, while at the same time, we have enough food to hold us over for at least two weeks, should we get snowed in. We have our own well and a generator and headlamps and sleeping bags and a tank full of LP... I guess we're preppers too.
Rebel preppers, cuz we don't hang out with other preppers.
Is it the motorcycling that has made us into such cautious people? On a bike, you can't trust other people to behave properly behind the wheel, and when they don't, YOUR safety is in your hands and your anticipatory paranoia.
The years of being cavers certainly have driven us towards self-sufficiency. When bad things happen in a wild cave situation, it's easy for the situation to go pear-shaped really fast. That's the time when 'self-rescue' is the hope and 'full-rescue' is the nightmare. The Texas Region caving community (for a while) was listing the phone number of a funeral home in case of emergency.
Okay, that was just an asshole thing to do... but it did kinda sum things up.
Anyway, we're of a self-sufficiency bent, and part of the process is to anticipate what can get you into trouble. No, we don't lock ourselves in the house and never leave - we do like to enjoy life, after all - but we have gotten into the habit of not provoking trouble. The Goddess of Strife is a mean old bitch, and she'll get you whenever it pleases her.
Well...I've rambled enough. Tomorrow is Suesday, writer's group, lunch with a fellow writer, trip to the grocery store, human interaction. Hope you enjoy it, too.
Instead, I am dreaming.
Last night I printed out the first twenty pages of what (I hope) is the final draft of The High Bridge. Diligently, I put it in a binder. Then I printed out my proposed bookcover idea and slipped it into the clear-view sleeve on the front of the 3-ring binder. Then I sighed and thought "Some day soon. I just know it."
Yes, I'm just a dreamer.
Cally had forgotten soda has caffeine. He’d forgotten how sensitive he could be to caffeine, but when there was nothing else to wash down dinner, he drank it.
He was puzzled why he was managing to catch the eleven o’clock news. The program was already showing the weather forecast when he realized he really needed to go to bed.
The pillow… hurt. It didn’t seem as comfortable tonight. Of course, his head was filled with those horrible news events. What a terrible world.
Might as well stay up and read. Hmmm… fantasy book, Terry Pratchett, Discworld.
He woke when the book fell off the bed. He couldn’t figure out why the light was on. Oh, yeah, the bad news on TV kept him up.
Now he couldn’t get back to sleep.
Might as well stay up and watch TV.
There was nothing on but info-mercials. Who buys this crap?
Wow, that VacSharkSucker does a really good job. Where did he put his wallet? He’d figure out a way to replace the rent money later.
He woke to the morning news on TV. Why was the TV on? Why wasn’t he in bed?
Oh yeah, got worried about the security of his debit card number after giving it to the people on TV. He’d watched a little longer; they seemed trustworthy.
He hadn’t been awoken by his alarm however; he had to be at work in an hour.
Raced through heating water in the microwave while getting dressed. Poured the instant powder into the cup.
He ran straight into the hall closet door that he left open. Banged his nose. Coffee on his shirt. Coffee on the carpet. And dammit, he now had no coffee.
Time to pull a college trick; instant coffee mixed into a can of soda.
He’d have to down the soda, because he rode a motorcycle for his commute. The jolt would be a bit of a shock, but he was certain that the shakiness would stop by noon.
Too bad about the car getting repossessed. He would have sold it but he owed more than it was worth.
He zipped in and out of traffic on his Honda, trying to make up for lost time spent changing into clean clothes.
The VacSharkSucker was half his rent money. How was he going to pay it back?
He shouldn’t have bought it. He couldn’t afford it.
Hey, Mother’s Day was coming up. Had his sister gotten anything for Mom? Would she go half-zees on the thing? It was so cool. Maybe he could get his sister to help pay for it.
Thinking of how to scheme against his sister, he didn’t notice that the traffic light before him had turned red. There was a bus about to intersect his path.
The bus driver had forgotten how greasy pizza was. He’d forgotten how sensitive his stomach could be to grease, but when there was nothing else for dinner, he ate it.
He was surprised at how much pain he felt; enough to keep him from getting to sleep, so he stayed up way past his bedtime to watch the news and wait for the antacids to kick in.
When they did, he went to bed.
WAG Topic #23: “Ripple”. When our characters walk their worlds, the world reacts. So for this week, look only at reactions. Observe a person and describe the reaction of the world to them. What can you tell about them based solely on the reaction of others? What kind of impression are they making on the world, the environment, the people around them, even on you? What is changing (even subtley) because of their existence? Are they aware of it? No Rules! Now Write! (Now, instead of a deadline we have an ending date. You may add links to this list between now and 25 MAY 2010.)
So, as per usual, I was getting our brats ready by melting some margarine in beer until it came to a simmer, then I threw in the brats and some sliced onion. Usually I have great success with this, although it's not the fastest way to cook brats.
The funny thing is the smell of simmering beer absolutely FILLED the house today, sorta like a tavern on St. Patrick's weekend. I didn't think too much about it until...
THE CARBON MONOXIDE & EXPLOSIVE GAS DETECTOR BEGAN TO SCREAM AT 200 decibels! The display was flashing 'GAS - 215'. I yanked the unit from the wall outlet and smothering it against my side, ran for the back door. I leaped outside and began waving the bastard unit in the air, trying to get the sensor to clear. I finally got it to shut off. I stared at it a moment, wondering what it meant.
Our appliances are electric, except for the water heater and the furnace. It was a nice day, so the furnace hadn't fired up at all. I hadn't washed any dishes for a while so the water heater hadn't run.
Could beer and onion be considered noxious fumes?
I stepped back into the kitchen and stared at the CO detector. At first nothing, but 30 seconds later 200 dBs and a flashing display again "GAS!!! 215!!!" Once again I dashed out of the house, intermittently pressing the reset button while waving the unit in the air again! It finally went silent and I set it on the patio table.
That's where it remained until dinner was done and we'd finished eating.
I must say, those were the best tasting brats I've ever made. I think I'll send Kidde the Smoke Alarm people my special recipe!
I love Tuesday.
Tuesday is Writing Group Day.
Tuesday is confirmation that Monday is over.
Tuesday is without a title like "Hump Day" or "Friday Eve" or "Weekend Launch Day".
Tuesday is unimposing, except for the occasional Two For Tuesday Sale, which is usually a good thing.
Tuesday is Sue's Day.
I love Tuesday.
I liked the perspective of post and read more of this writer's posting. Really quite enjoyable. Check it out.
He was bald.
It was a funny-odd thing to look in the mirror while getting ready to go out in the morning. He still wasn’t accustomed to the round dome, looking like a moon rising from the horizon. The skin was pale and evenly colored except for the white scar just over his ear.
His brother’s fault; a careless fling of the swing on the playset. He remembered falling into the grass and crying as the red blood contrasted on the green blades. And when his mother came running with the towel, he cried even harder. Mom never panicked about anything; this was something different. Maybe he’d get some ice cream from the deal.
It seemed so long ago now. Things had not been normal for a long time.
The collar of his tee shirt was sitting funny. He tugged at the bottom front, stretching the bright white cotton until he felt the band digging into the puffy skin on the nape of his neck. That wouldn’t work. He reached behind and tugged the tail until the front felt choking again. He stuck out his tongue in an exaggerated choking manner and pulled the front again.
No choking. He had enough of that every time he took his pills, the pills he hated because it made his skin puffy and his shirt fit funny and his hair fall out.
It wouldn’t be long now. Everyone said so. Just believe it would be alright and it would be.
Except when he woke up with a headache or had to sit down to rest after only ten minutes or when his favorite foods looked like piles of last week’s leftovers. It was hard to keep the faith when he couldn’t even enjoy macaroni and cheese.
He stuck out his tongue again and stared at it a moment. It felt like it should be covered with fur, but nope, just the blotchy discoloration of a sickly human. He pulled it back into his mouth and grabbed his school bag.
His mother stepped to the door. She was dressed in her Winnie the Pooh tee shirt, a sight he’d grown to hate. It meant needles and tests and antiseptic smells.
“Sorry, sweetie. No school today.”
WAG #22: “A Real Hero”. In fiction, often every hero looks like the other, with broad shoulders and a chiselled features, and the heroine always has an oval face and rosebud lips. (Okay, so these are the worst examples!) So for WAG #22, observe a stranger you think would make a good main character, and describe their physical features as accurately as you can (and without cliche) so we can see them as real individuals and not cardboard cut-outs. Feel free to transport those people into your fictional world, or just describe them as you see them in their real environment. No Rules! Now Write!
My apologies to you that I didn't post yesterday; it was Replace-The-Water-Heater Day. Lots of excitement. David did a great job. No leaks. No damage to the walls.
Today, we gardened a little before going to Costco. I moved bricks around the yard and mowed the area that can't be reached by the riding mower. I'm sore. I'm tired.
I don't have anything to say today, except a wish for you to have a great day.
Here's an interesting post about famous authors who have been rejected for now-famous/successful works. Enjoy.
I'm currently working on editing my MS The High Bridge, but I'm having 'trouble'.
It's not because I don't know what or how to edit. The problem seems to be the media used while editing.
If I sit at the computer and go over the document, I don't find nearly as much as when I have the stack of printed material in front of me. The words leap into order when down in black and white, and I find lots of markup situations. The problem with editing hard copy is somehow I never find time to sit down and transfer the changes into the electronic document.
Does anyone else have this tendency of not doing well in a particular media? Do you find yourself editing better in one form over another?
The reason I'm been so lax in posting is that I've been collecting fonts and graphics to enhance my ability as a graphic composer. Apart from the Graphic Worm I'm participating in, and the flyers I do for the state park, I'm also trying to work up something interesting for my website www.SusanOShields.com, whether it be background or 'signs' or whatever.
Any way you slice it, I'm learning lots and making great strides to releasing my creative tendencies.
But you'd like to see more writings, no doubt. Excuses be damned! My distractions will be overcome.
SNOW! It's May 12th! We're not in the mountains! It's just over a month until Summer begins!
What is this white stuff?!?!?!
Sigh...welcome to Colorado. By noon, it was entirely melted and gone.
It reminded me so much of the different adventures David and I have had on our bikes and makes me want to get on them and take off. Life is too short to always play it safe.
If possible, I'd like to post a motorcycle themed entry on Mondays, just to get the week started out with fun and excitement. We'll see how that goes.
Well, I will fail in one regard, and it's only a minor setback. I had intended to tell you on May 1st about the Brenda Novak's 6th Annual Online Auction for Diabetes Research. http://brendanovak.auctionanything.com/Home.taf
However, it's never too late until it's over, so please follow the link and take a peek. Ms. Novak's auctions have raised hundreds of thousands of dollars in much need funding. There's a variety of options; perhaps there's something for you too!
The National Letter Carriers, the US Postal Service, Campbell Soup and many worthy organizations are sparing time and effort for this. Please spare the cause a can or two of soup or rice.
I was looking for the word 'cliché' with the accent on the 'e' to copy onto my last blog post and came upon a cartoon from 1885 about hackneyed phrases used in novels. I thought it was funny that many of the clichés are still used. I absolutely LOVE the literal translations.
“WAG #21: Message in a Bottle” It’s part of human nature that we sometimes wish we could communicate with our younger selves, our unreasonable selves, our subconscious selves, our self-destructive selves, our more innocent selves, or any number of other us-es that we all seem to have within. In this week’s WAG, consider the way we talk to ourselves, the tapes we play inside our heads, and write a piece: fiction or non-fiction, about yourself, a character, or someone else. As usual no limits and no rules. One-two-three Write! (This week’s theme suggested by Kate McIntire. If you have a theme suggestion, please write to me.)
When I read what the suggested topic was for Writing Adventure Group, I misunderstood that we were supposed to write about sending ourselves messages back through time to our younger selves. My first thought was "I'd tell myself to finish college." The second thought involved some rather personal stuff about my family relations and my childhood. The third was...
Well, you get the picture. It seems everyone wishes they had the same warnings 'way back when'. "If only I knew this, that and the other thing, my life would have been so much better," we tell ourselves, and it may or may not be true. It's nice to have insider information, but if you're not wise enough at that time to have the foresight on your own, what good will being given the advice do?
I am (if I understand the term correctly) an existentialist. I tried wishing that some of the things in my life haven't happened. Complaining about them certainly hasn't done much good - the opposite, perhaps. Things are what they are as they exist right now. I've gotten into the habit of dismissively shaking my head at some of my memories and mentally patting myself on the back for not allowing these things to completely ruin my future.
It is trite. It is cliché. It is ubiquitous.
It is what it is.
I was successful in 2009. By November 22, I had a 69,000 word first draft done and immediately began editing. I was so glad to have completed something, especially since I suffered such despair over my previous manuscript Destiny of Honor that was five years old and 247K long. Having The High Bridge done in record time and of a reasonable length sent me into the throes of ecstasy!
Then I sent it out for friends and/or crit partners (beta readers?) and got my butt kicked. It was in a good way and well-intentioned, but a beating is a beating. Sometimes you're too involved in a relationship to see what's wrong with the object of your affection and a friend has to come along and tell you "He's flawed. You can do better!" I found out that my love was a pretty good story but covered with warts.
I've spent the last five months working with this love of my life but have decided to send 'him' off to the big bad world to test if anyone else can grow to love 'him' as I have. Dressed 'him' up and sent 'him' out.
Unfortunately, I've grown lonely. I'm grabbing my notecard pile (my fertility potion) and plan to make an exciting new love, without the kick in the pants provided by NaNoWriMo.
Wish me luck.
I knew May 5th wasn't Mexican Independence Day but was, in fact, the celebration of winning a battle with the French. I didn't know the significance.
Okay, okay, it was one battle. The French ultimately won the war in 1862 and occupied Mexico with a puppet "emperor" by the name of Maximilian I. The US put pressure on France to leave, which they did. This opened the door for Benito Juarez to depose Max I five years after the Battle of Puebla.
Here's the thing that's so noteworthy; the well-equipped, well-trained French Army outnumbered the Mexicans 2-to-1! It was 8000 soldiers up against 4000 unprepared and technologically deficient Mexicans. Absolutely amazing!
So, while you're sipping (or gulping or quaffing) your strawberry margarita, try to be as happy as those fighters back in 1862.
Oh, and make certain you pay your tab, since that whole thing started because Juarez declared he wasn't paying back the French a debt run up by a previous Mexican government.
I think part of it has to do with my shift in concentration from getting the MS perfect to getting my query refined so I can get on with selling it to an agency or a pub house.
At first I dreaded the whole 'pitch' aspect of writing, but I'm starting to like it more and more.
Such is Life.
The query process has begun for The High Bridge.
Okay, okay, I've only sent out three so far. One rejection has already come back, which didn't create the immediate and visible reaction I expected, although the results have caused cracks through which a little lava has seeped (high blood pressure, argument with The Husband, over-intensity in other activities not writing related...)
It was only one rejection, I know. Even though I can claim a 33% rate of non-return, I shouldn't react too harshly for all that. The law of averages are inherently against me at that low volume, but still, I keep thinking I have to 'fix' it somehow.
Yes, I've gotten advice from many sources about writing a good query letter, but I'm one of those people who needs examples to support an explanation. If there are rules to be followed, I'm very much inclined to interpret them how it pleases me. Either through stupidity or stubbornness, my imagination will draw all the wrong conclusions.
So, I've been spending lots of time reading (and re-reading) a website called The Query Shark, by Janet Reid. Janet is a semi-mysterious figure, although her public persona is well known. Starting with Miss Snark, she's been giving advice (and high blood pressure -haha!) to querying writers in a sardonic yet amazingly helpful ways for at LEAST ten years (yes, since she was 19 - haha!) She's also a literary agent who knows her stuff, so if I glean anything for the total 'rip' of the submitted query letters, I should be ahead of the game.
Funny how writers say "write for yourself" but feel (for the most part) that someone has to read your creation in order to be fulfilled. It's a strange paradox.
Got a nice matching garment bag and suitcase with a Jordache label on it. I'm not quite sure if I should use this travel set or sell it as antiques. I mean, seriously! Jordache? What's up with that?
Still, everything cost me a TOTAL of ten dollar, so I guess I'll just write it all off emotionally as the cost of entertainment. I had a pretty good time, all in all.
It's good to talk 'big'. It builds up your spirit, increases your drive, strengthens your heart.
The unfortunate consequence is if you talk 'big' to yourself too convincingly, the tumble back to reality just hurts that much more.
When it comes to talking big, no one is supposed to be better at it than a new writer sending out her first query, an experience I just 'enjoyed' starting on Wednesday when I shot off a couple of emails for my contemporary romance The High Bridge.
It was an interesting experience, writing that letter. I've been playing with my hook and my mini synopsis for several weeks and thought I had it down to a pretty eye-catching couple of sentences. But then came the dreaded "Why Are You The Best, Most Qualified Person To Write This Book?" paragraph at the end.
I put it down as best I could, although I suspect it came across sounding a little "You're not good enough to write this book, so I have to do it myself" kind of attitude. If you want a romance story that involves back-country travel of abandoned railway right-of-ways through bear/mountain lion country, I'm your girl! Do you think Jackie Collins is going to know that the old Willys jeep is really pronounced "WILL ISS"? No! Will Nora Roberts know much about falling off a dirt bike when lightning strikes a nearby tree? N--- well, maybe, with some research.
The point is I know a lot about what I write for a novel. I don't know a lot about making ME sound like the only person qualified to do so.
You only have to make love once to no longer be a virgin. I've already received word (the dreaded "Dear Author" letter) that I'm no longer a virgin to the agency rejection system. I just don't want to be a rejection slut.
Time to rewrite the query letter, methinks. Need to learn a new way to talk 'big'.
WAG #20: The First Time” Everything we’ve ever done had a ‘first time’. Think of an activity (either of your own or something you observe of someone else) and write about the first time of that experience, and perhaps even compare it to subsequent experiences. Maybe even pick a moment that might have looked mundane from the outside, but made a significant change to the person experiencing it. Not a lot of rules, as usual… just let your imagination flow! www.indiadrummond.com
WAG #19: Pick a Pocket” Let’s do some people-watching for this one! Pick someone out of a crowd and describe what (you imagine) is in their pockets (Unless you want to be brave and ask them!) Give us both meaning and physical details, and don’t forget to let yourself be surprised. (This week’s topic inspired by WAG founder India Drummond's son Bear.)
I hate waiting for freight trains.
There are a lot of grade crossings where I live in Colorado. The beef can't walk to market, after all, and the various ores from the mountains aren't transported by 20-mule teams. Trains are ubiquitous. And necessary.
The drivers in Colorado seem more patient than those I saw (and was) when I lived in Illinois. Maybe because the scenery is better or the sky bluer; I don't know why. In Colorado, people wait quietly for trains or traffic lights or other delays.
In Illinois it was an insult to a driver to be stopped for any reason besides a twenty car pile up, and I can recall once getting stopped by the Indiana Harbor Belt and sitting in the same spot for what seemed an eternity. I glared around at my fellow travelers, accusing them of plotting to be in my way and preventing me from making a U-turn.
As I glanced around, my eyes fell on a little old man, standing in front of the pharmacy I was halted by. He had a knowing little smile on his face as he rocked back and forth, from heels to toes - forward and back, forward and back. This caused his hips to swing to and fro, forward and back. His twinkling eyes found mine and his little smile broadened.
I'm certain I turned fifteen shades darker of crimson because of what I noticed. Very near the fly of his light-colored trousers was a hard bulge that tightened whenever his hips swung forward. He slipped his hand deep into his pocket and his smile grew even wider.
"Grampa!" came a childish yell, accompanied by little shoes tapping on the sidewalk.
The old man gave a glad cry and pulled a round lollipop from his pocket for a little girl.
Speaking of writing conferences, I'm going to AWP this weekend. Poor old David is gonna have to take care of himself. Pizza and beer and the bachelor life for him. He'll probably spend the entire weekend watching war movies on TV.
Hmmm. Go figger.
I do need to keep writing, however. Apart from the fact that I enjoy it immensely, it's just something I SHOULD do, even when I'm not in the mood. Or uninspired. Or completely positive that no one is reading.
Well... enough whining; get on with it.
© 2010 by Susan E O’Shields – all rights reserved
© 2010 by Susan E O’Shields – all rights reserved
© 2010 by Susan E O’Shields – all rights reserved
Brrr! It’s cold here in
Don’t get me wrong, I love the snow, especially when it’s still fluffy and delicate as it perches on a tree branch. Seeing tracks of bunnies and birds also reminds me that despite being out in the country, I’m not alone and isolated. There’s wildlife out there, even if it doesn’t linger in one spot much.
Still, I’m looking forward to the arrival of spring, when I can open the windows and hear the birdsong and feel the renewing breezes. Despite my favorite holiday (Halloween) occurring in autumn, I think spring is my favorite time of the year.
Well, shame on me! I missed my 4th of the Month deadline!
Who says that new resolutions have to be set in stone by the first day of the year? Not me. In fact, I think I’m going to go with a New Month’s Resolution. Once a month, I’ll make a list of five things that I wish to accomplish by the end of the month.
< Plan the week’s dinner menu every Monday morning, rather than 5pm every day (in a slight panic).
< Drink a quart of plain, unadulterated water each and every day.
< Send ten agent queries by the end of the month.
< Drink only two cups of coffee at day (no, c’mon! I’m not going to increase the cup size to compensate).
< Take the aluminum cans to the recycling center.
< Write a minimum three blog posts a week.
Okay, okay, you can count. That’s six. I figure the aluminum cans one is more of a chore than a resolution
Okay, okay, you can count. That’s six. I figure the aluminum cans one is more of a chore than a resolution
Looks like I have two more posts to enter, so off I go. Cheers!
Looks like I have two more posts to enter, so off I go. Cheers!