I've been feeling a strange sense of hope or anticipation over the last few days. I didn't really expect the new year to have such allure, but my calendar is empty and I've got momentum behind me, making swift progress on my novel for the last week. I'm thinking of all the writing-related things I'd like to accomplish this next year, and of all the unwritten stories just waiting to be told. The year is a blank slate. I can do anything I'd like with it.
In my head, I know that's kinda silly. As my children readily demonstrate, January 1st is just "tomorrow" for December 31st. I've never been one to make resolutions. My husband does not bear the passage of time well, but I've never much cared. But there's a hope in the air that I'm not sure I've felt before with the passing of the years. Maybe this will be the year.
I can make it be the year to a certain extent. I can't make anyone accept my work, but I can get my work into the maximum number of hands in order to increase my odds. I can step up my output, so I have more work to be considered. A new year can be empowering, I suppose. And I suppose that that's what resolutions are all about anyway. So maybe I shouldn't scoff.
Maybe I should just nose the grindstone. And hope...