I am nothing if not hopeful. Hope rises in me, eternal. Every December as the old year draws to a close and a new one stands on my threshold, I think, This is the year.
For what? For becoming the person I would like to be. And what is that? A vision so mundane I’m a little ashamed to share it. But here it is.
For starters, I want to be kinder and gentler. I would like to be more forgiving.
I would like be less envious of the success of others. When a friend or colleague hits a home run with a book, I would love to be able to celebrate that accomplishment without thinking that somehow their success is my failure.
I would like to be more generous. My wife is a giving person, and I rely on her as a gauge for generosity. At some point, when we discuss our charitable giving, I’d like the first number out of my mouth to match her best expectation.
I would like to remember the name of every individual who has told me in person that he or she enjoys my work. This is especially true of those who’ve said this to me many times, but whom I continue to regard with utter cluelessness each time we meet.
I would like to write one thing that is true. I don’t mean non-fiction. I mean one thing that captures life truly, simply, and without artifice.
I would like to love more deeply, less selfishly, and with a broader stretch of my heart.
I would like to lose fifteen pounds.
I would like to become the writer I believe myself capable of being.
What is a resolution but a dream of what might be? In my experience, dreams can come true, but only if you work on them. Wish me luck. And I’ll do the same for you.