My boss joked that she’s going to get me a shirt that said “I survived 2021.” I’ve had some challenging years in my life, but 2021 currently has the title of most challenging. At least this isn’t the year everyone is trotting out all of their accomplishments because I have only one.
We survived.
We survived. We survived. We survived.
And if you asked me I have a resolution for 2022 it’s the same — to make it to 2023. That’s all I’m willing to commit to.
2021 didn’t teach me that we’re all fundamentally not in control of anything, but it sure underlined that reality.
So no big resolutions. But I do have hopes.
When the proverbial shit hit the proverbial fan, all I wanted to do was write. Not about what was happening, necessarily. Just write.
Of course, I both did and didn’t write, because there were days I had the wherewithal and days when circumstances and my own chronic illness conspired to wreck any possibility of that. But I wanted to. More than anything.
So I’m setting myself a tiny little commitment. I want to write at least 10 words every day.
Here. On Twitter. On one of the three manuscripts I’ve got going.
I’ve completed The NY Times crossword every day for 77 days in a row. Despite emergencies and chronic flares and everything else. I can do 10 words a day.
We’ve had too many difficult years in a row to think 2022 will suddenly be better. The pandemic alone will guarantee that, let alone climate change.
But maybe I can do this. I can try.