When reaching for New Year’s resolutions, or what I call broken promises, I’m old enough to know these 10 pounds are not only not coming off – not ever – but instead have taken on a life of their own, expanding to 15, 20 with no end in sight. Onward and outward so sayeth my ass!
But last year’s goals, ass not included, were not in vain. Write, submit, get paid, speak. Lobby congress to change gun laws so we stop killing each other. Take a class. Find a job. Or at least try. Keep my kids outta jail and my marriage in tact. It wasn’t easy, but yay me.
I didn’t write as much as I aimed to, but I did submit my work which was aptly rejected. Again. And again. And again. Until it was not. Then it was loved, and shared. Then rejected. For me, that’s a big fat win.
I attended writing workshops and conferences where I’ve met talented, extraordinary writers I am honored and humbled to be seated amongst. I didn’t want to, it was scary and intimidating, but I made myself go – and am a better human for doing so, and just maybe a better writer.
I hid in bed, blankets over my head, tears on my face, with every single 2015 mass shooting that flooded my Facebook and twitter stream, or if horrific enough made the evening news. Mass, urban, domestic, mentally ill, colleges, theaters, office parties, toddlers shooting kids and babies getting shot. This is the fucked up world we live in, until we, the voting public, say enough. Congress must be held accountable. So I went to DC with Newtown Action Alliance for the National Vigil for Gun Violence Victims and escorted victim’s families to their senators and beg them to do something. It was painful and powerful, energizing and exhausting. I didn’t want to go, but made myself and put myself in a situation I never expected to be and am forever grateful. This was an extraordinary experience and shame on me for not sharing it with all of you.
The little boy, 12 year old Tamir Rice, who was gunned down for playing (while black) with a toy gun in a town park by those sworn to protect, was found to be a perfectly acceptable act with no one held accountable. Yet every white 50+ year old disgruntled male yeehaw can buy an semi with unlimited rounds and parade into their local donut shop, or squat in an Oregon bird sanctuary, to prove the government is not the boss of him.
Something is very broken here in ‘merica. We here in Newtown know that all to well.
Yet there is hope. Today, the twitterverse is alive with rumors of POTUS taking executive action where Congress failed. There is always hope. Hope for action, for change, and the opportunity to make voices heard.
The point of this blathering post is to say last year was hugely successful because the goals I set were small, but personal, attainable, and measurable. Not much, just something. Anything to make my world a little less comfortable in order to become a little more tolerable.
Sorry for the pontification, but the goal for this year is to write more, post more which means more blogging. I gotta start somewhere, so I’m starting with this. I’m fully aware most will be throwing spaghetti, but something will stick. I know this for fact.
Because the ceiling of the house I grew up in proves it: if you throw enough spaghetti, eventually something will stick and leave a lasting impression. For years. Maybe that’ll be the same for me.