I Never Look Back, Dahling

It's been a year since I've written. I've thought about writing. I've read about writing. I've tried to forget writing, but it exists like a persistent buzzing in the back of my brain. I have one follower left: my mother, I suspect. I've probed around the edges of this open hole where my muse once lived as one might bother the socket where a tooth once sat before it was ripped out by the surgeon, and I think I've begun to name the forces that left this crater. They are legion, but their tribe is called pressure. Word count became an ever-present layer of fog, and self-criticism surrounded by creative space with impenetrable coils of barbed wire.

Cliche as it is, a New Year is a new start and I have a few resolutions. None of them are self-improving in nature; have no fear about fighting me for the last elliptical or hiding your chocolate. Some of them are hobby-related: learn entrelac, try at least one felting project. The biggie, however, is to write. With no aim, no goal, no word count. Just to write for the simple fulfillment that it is. A lot of it will end up here, because screaming in a glass enclosure just hurts my ears. I'll do mostly book critiques, because when I read I'm often thinking about what I'd do differently and what I'd like to emulate. Some of my thoughts will inevitably creep in: my kids, my work, the hubs, the latest in yarn arts. The only rule is that - like the androgynous Edna Mole in The Incredibles - I never look back, dahling. At how hard I tried and failed (quit) to be a novelist. I'm a writer: by design or by compulsion, it's hard to tell the difference. In 2012 I'll be doing my best to just be.