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I try not to do resolutions, because putting pressure on myself in any way activates the LET'S PRETEND THIS THING DOESN'T EXIST sectors of my brain and becomes rapidly actively (violently) counterproductive. (This is why I don't do NaNoWriMo. Took me a few years to get it through my head, but I have soundly learned my lesson.)
I do have one, small, goal. It's the same one I decided on last year: write at least twelve poems.
(Not, mind, 'write at least one poem per month'. I have an unpredictable and contentious relationship with linear time, and if I try to do that, I will fail to notice an entire month going by, feel like shit about it, and the guilt of missing one will stop me writing poetry the entire rest of the year. The intention here is to not do something that will end up being counterproductive!)
I had written twelve poems by mid-March, last year. (I wrote 23, in total.) This is the point of the goal: to the so easy it's basically impossible for me to fail, but also enough that I feel like I've achieved something. Twelve poems is the sweet spot for that for me. It's also, in fair part, just a mental reminder to myself to keep writing poetry, because I love writing poetry, but there have been years I wrote few or none because I just... forgot that was a thing I could do, I guess?
In the spirit of Vague Superstition (I have few actually codified superstitious practices, but a lot of accreted osmosis about how they tend to unfold), I spent New Year's Eve in a dress covered in skulls and roses, with a tank top covered in pineapples under it. (Pineapples represent hospitality, I think.) In the same spirit, I spent New Year's Day in a dress covered in sunflowers, ate black-eyed peas and stewed greens, and wrote a poem. (It is a very short and formless poem, and I feel vaguely like it's insufficient, but telling myself to shut up about things being Not Good Enough is one of my general non-timelocked life goals. Anyway, I can write more sonnets and jumpropes and villanelles and things later.)
Some kind of intention setting for 2020, I suppose. Or just hope that hope is possible.
May 2020 be better than 2019. May the 20s be better than the 10s.
I do have one, small, goal. It's the same one I decided on last year: write at least twelve poems.
(Not, mind, 'write at least one poem per month'. I have an unpredictable and contentious relationship with linear time, and if I try to do that, I will fail to notice an entire month going by, feel like shit about it, and the guilt of missing one will stop me writing poetry the entire rest of the year. The intention here is to not do something that will end up being counterproductive!)
I had written twelve poems by mid-March, last year. (I wrote 23, in total.) This is the point of the goal: to the so easy it's basically impossible for me to fail, but also enough that I feel like I've achieved something. Twelve poems is the sweet spot for that for me. It's also, in fair part, just a mental reminder to myself to keep writing poetry, because I love writing poetry, but there have been years I wrote few or none because I just... forgot that was a thing I could do, I guess?
In the spirit of Vague Superstition (I have few actually codified superstitious practices, but a lot of accreted osmosis about how they tend to unfold), I spent New Year's Eve in a dress covered in skulls and roses, with a tank top covered in pineapples under it. (Pineapples represent hospitality, I think.) In the same spirit, I spent New Year's Day in a dress covered in sunflowers, ate black-eyed peas and stewed greens, and wrote a poem. (It is a very short and formless poem, and I feel vaguely like it's insufficient, but telling myself to shut up about things being Not Good Enough is one of my general non-timelocked life goals. Anyway, I can write more sonnets and jumpropes and villanelles and things later.)
Some kind of intention setting for 2020, I suppose. Or just hope that hope is possible.
May 2020 be better than 2019. May the 20s be better than the 10s.
