At the start of every year I always say, "This is going to be the year I sell a book." Except this year, I'm not saying it. Sadly, I've found the journey to publication is not something I can plan, (which upsets me more than you can imagine because I plan EVERYTHING.) But perhaps this is a good exercise in learning some things are not in my control. It will happen when it happens. Maybe not this year, not the next year...hopefully some time before I die. My writing goal for this year instead is to finish the %&^(*#&! book I've been working on since April (I had to put it on hold to do some edits), and write another thriller brainstormed by my new agent. Those are things I CAN control.
There is something else I can control....my weight. Sort of. I haven't been doing a very good job of it in the past couple of years unless you consider seeing how fat I can get and still cram into my jeans a method of "control." But I've reached the point where there is more hanging out of my jeans than actually going in.
I used my two weeks off for the holidays to eat and drink as much as possible, a last "hurrah," so-to-speak. The goal was to become so sick and disgusted with myself that I would actually eat better and exercise in the New Year. It appears to be working. I ate a celery stick yesterday (and enjoyed it) and got up before sunrise to go to the gym today.
I know. I know. Everyone is all motivated in January and then by February they're in sweatpants, shoving their face full of Cheetos while they watch a Biggest Loser marathon. I'm not saying I won't be that person, but I'm trying to stay positive. I managed to lose 40 pounds the year of my wedding. (That I put back on with a steady diet of junk food and beer.) But now, I'm older and more concerned with my health and energy. I'm hoping it will stick. My goal is to be back in my sexy, black, backless bathing suit by summer. Wish me luck!
So that's my plan, what's yours?