Oh, no, I'm the friend who never writes. I'm the writer who's been staring out the window for a month. I'm the blogger who did two entries in December when he should've done something like what, thirty?
Okay, the horror, yes, I'll try to do better. I'll put it on the list of resolutions (sure to fail). Is it just me, or do you tend to make resolutions until about the age of 30, and then realize you ain't following through on any of the stuff you said in January, so then from age 30 on, you just grin and say, "I'm not making resolutions this year. I'm just going to commit to betterness: being better than last year." Yep, that's me.
I want to get back in the gym. I want to write my magnum opus in three months. I want to become a philanthropist. I'd like to be universally adored. I'd like to do one scintillating, profound blog entry per day. I'd like to live my life with a tear-jerking string arrangement in the background as I push a Redfordian lock of hair from my eyes, my girl by my side, the sun all fire-like on the horizon.
But none of that's likely, is it? I'm bald. My days are full. Fiction is the new poetry (as far as remuneration and readership is concerned), and I'm adored by the dog (the only CONSISTENT adorer of mine).
Somehow, though, that's okay. We're starting a new year. I'm beginning my reading list anew. I'm up to two books already since I was nearly done with both of them last year. I back teaching young people again (just in early mornings), and this makes me happy. I have a Blackberry. The words are flowing. Outlook cheery.
Let's chat soon. Handwritten is best.