New Year’s Resolutions from a Freelance Writer
New year, new you.
The cynical, raised-by-New Yorkers part of me wants to throw all the shade on all this New Year’s rebirth; on resolutions, on proclamations to workout/eat healthier/create more/love more/be more open to new ideas; on optimistic decrees of total transformation tied to turning, once more, around the sun; turning our calendars (metaphoric and literal) to a new page — an arbitrary page of an arbitrary, Gregorian calendar.
The hippie, Northern California-bred me thinks that’s because we should be always evolving and growing, always loving and creating and moving our bodies and stretching our minds. That maybe we should all follow the moon more.
But maybe no matter how arbitrary the calendar, there’s something to this collective reflection, dream-wielding, goal-setting. Maybe there’s power in people and numbers. Maybe more accountability.
New year, new you, new me.
New outlook. New goals. New recurring sleep-time dreams to analyze because they mirror the new, recurring conscious-brain waking dreams that reflect new goals and a shiny, bright outlook on everything new that’s coming my way.
New rad clients. New chances to creatively collaborate. New exciting bylines and projects on the horizon. (More news about that later).
New beautiful and mobile-optimized website (thanks to Stephanie Gardner designs). Because we are always on our phones and some of the time when we’re on our phones I want us to be looking at — and reading blog posts published on — my new, beautiful website. Because we’re all always evolving and I am also evolving — as a sentient being, as a writer, as the founder and president and proprietor and sole employee of my freelancing enterprise that maybe next year I’ll term empire — and our online presence is just another piece of our evolving-sentient-being-ness and this website is the first thing that comes up when you search for me.
New morning routine (lemon water, meditation, memoir writing. And the gym — because I like to move and stretch while I listen to Savage Lovecast and This American Life — even though maybe that one doesn’t sound as enlightened as the others). Because whenever someone successful tells their secrets it’s always about meditation and lemon water and rising at dawn to do handstands on mountaintops. And not checking your email right away, or maybe just scanning for important messages but not replying right away. And writing three pages long-hand without reading any of it back for three weeks. And swimming in the coldest and deepest parts of the Pacific Ocean without a wetsuit, or wearing a wetsuit that resembles a seal’s skin, on the backs of Great White sharks who’s gnashing teeth grin for you, alone, because of the lemon water you drink every morning on the tops of mountains posed in a one-handed handstand. Or something.
Renewed motivation to finish my memoir — and get it published for you to read. Which should happen now that I’m drinking lemon water every morning. Which should happen now that I have another year’s distance from the subject matter (so to speak), a year of mourning, of morning routines (however fledgling they’ve been before). A year of deepening so many friendships and letting a few fade; of my brother moving back to the U.S. from Russia after seven years; of brighter colors and bared souls as I strive to live, even more, in each settled moment. Of sadness: Watching a family friend I call uncle suffer a stroke and fall into a coma, of the wait-and-see of it all, as he lies, slowly recovering but still unconscious, in his hospital bed. Of trips to Austin, Texas, and to Symbiosis Gathering; to Portland, Oregon to officiate a college friend’s wedding in the city where we went to college. A year of many Megabus rides to Los Angeles and Sacramento spent staring out the second-deck window of the double-decked bus listening to whatever three songs on repeat sound the most like the sounds the synapses in the most wrinkled crevices of my brain make when they talk to each other. I really think you’ll like what I’m writing. I really think you’ll read it soon, too. New you, new me. New year.
Happy 2016. What do you resolve to do new?
Josey Rose Duncan is a writer, editor, and strategist. She lives in San Francisco with her cat, Time Travel. This post originally appeared on her website, joseyduncan.com.