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…without new year’s writerly resolutions. You know, those things I do at the beginning of every year, the things I scrupulously plan and aim for, but that mostly don’t actually come to fruition? Aim for the fucking stars, that’s what I say. At the very least, it gets you out of the dirt for a little while.

So, I have a lot of stars in my sights this year. Freelance and “must” writings aside (because I always hit those goals and so don’t need to write them down) here are the way the constellations perhaps mightbe maybe mehopes shall align this year:

  • The draft of the “Illum” novel I’ve been carrying in my head since November.
  • The rewrite and submission of “What the Moon,” the novel that I drafted for National Novel Writing Month last year (the publisher who took “Between the Devil” expressed possible interest in this one, and I don’t want to miss that opportunity if it comes around).
  • The final version of SotP, the non-fiction book I’ve been mucking around with for, oh, three years.
  • The draft of M&P, a new non-fiction book idea that needs to be written.
  • About one short story per week, to the tune of 50 stories written and submitted this year.

Those are fucking-a high-ass goals. Yes, I am OH so aware of this. But I do well with big-big-big, overwhelming, impossible odds, especially when I set the odds up myself and then post them in a public place. The list over at the right shows just how very big of a job this actually is. So, failure might be imminent (fine, fine, failure is certainly imminent), but along the path to the failure of stars, there are many, many small successes.

What will this year bring? Me, as a slave to the story. My three Rs of Rooting, Rutting, and Writing. Books and stories and words. And beyond that, only something as small and conceivable as the world.

Kiss kiss bang bang, s.

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