Shut Up, Vocal

I'm not very good at new years. 1st January feels no different to me than the 31st of December. I am generally more inclined to be swayed by the season, than a number inked on a page. New shoots braving the chill with optimism makes me feel brave and optimistic, too.

January is not a time for resolutions, and projects and plans. It's a time for round-bellied mugs you can wrap your fingers around and inhale steam from. It's a time for thick, fluffy blankets. It's a month invented for procrastination. Napping.

Dreaming, maybe, but not serious dreams. The sort of dreams where you are a sausage roll, not the sort where you are Prime Minister and have made homelessness a thing of the past. Or you're a best-selling author with a couple of mil' just lying around and a nice house in Wiltshire, and... Oh, I don't know, a parrot who only knows swear words, and a butler to fold all your laundry for you.

Simply put, January is the 4am of the year. Still basically the middle of the night, in calendar terms.

It is perfectly reasonable to hit the snooze button and squeeze a little more rest out of these pre-dawn weeks.

If you're like me, just know that it's perfectly OK not to have some big, impressive, unique dream for 2025. Some people are leaping out of bed to go for a five mile run at four a.m. I have a great deal of respect for those people, bordering on awe. Truth is, not everyone is cut out to do that. I know I'm not. I'm OK with it.

And you know what? Our existence is pretty spectacular with or without those challenge-winning ambitions. You are a meat-suit wearing skeleton hurtling around a star, and don't you forget it.

I started 2024 with a big and stupid idea. I was going to write a microfiction every damn day of the year. It felt exciting and ambitious. If Vocal had put up a "new year projects" this time last year, I had something I could get my teeth into. I might not have knocked it out of the park, but at least I had something I could blow my trumpet about. At least I had a trumpet.

The thing is, I didn't come up with that big, stupid idea in January. I didn't even come up with it in December. Mired deep in the middle of winter is not, in my opinion and experience, a great time to feel motivated or be struck by inspiration. I know, you're shocked by this revelation.

Nope, I was mulling that plan, like the laziest of ciders, since late autumn. A time of change, a tickle of mortality. Almost as inspiring for a new beginning as Spring.

I do have writing goals. Of course I do. I have a novel I want to bully into shape, and novellas and short stories that are almost ready to shove off the branch. Doesn't everyone? Everyone on Vocal, at least.

I achieved my big, stupid goal last year. I think a "ta dah!" list is as important as a "to do" list. Mind you, this is coming from one of those annoying people who writes "have a cup of tea" on every to do list, just so I can tick it off aggressively, and with great satisfaction.

I think I am a better writer for my trouble. It would be a piss-poor show if I was a worse one, after all that practice.

I still feel a little bit wrung out from it, if I'm honest. Every day. I mean, really. What was I thinking?

I barely had enough juice in me to post daily for the last several weeks, let alone reciprocate in the Vocal community. Much less to dream big for the coming year.

For now, my biggest dream is to germinate and regenerate under this exceptionally cosy blanket. I'm going to Wolverine the shit out of my body and brain. Get back to me at five past February. Maybe a quarter to March.

Whether you are a keen arrow, pointed at your goals, or a slippered zombie ping-ponging your way through the next few weeks, trying on and discarding various projects like pyjamas, and gathering your energy to give 2025 a proper run-up... Keep hurtling, fellow skeleton.

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Thank you for reading!