I’ve been reading posts all day about what people have learned in 2009, what people vow to do in 2010, how many old things are laid to rest and how many new beginnings wait in the new year. I have trouble joining in the uplifting of hope, the declaration of intent, the swelling of new vitality and new promise. Not because I’m feeling particularly Scroogish, no, but because to me 2010 means the same thing as 2009:

Keep trying, keep working, keep fighting, and never quit.

The rollover between one day and the next doesn’t change that. The shift in the last two digits of the year doesn’t make the anticipated victories of the new year any greater than those of the old year. It doesn’t make the failures hurt any less, and it won’t eradicate the many bumps in the road ahead. It won’t make it any easier to pick up and keep going after getting knocked down, and it won’t change the driving need to keep doing it over and over again until I find even footing and claw my way just a little further up. The attitude most assign to the new year, I keep all year round. I may suck at optimism, but I’ve got a goddamned monopoly on bullheaded stubbornness and determination.

Tomorrow is a new beginning, another chance, another day to try to make something happen – another day to do my damnedest, push another few steps along the road, and enjoy the sweat in my eyes as much as the quiet, sweet seconds when everything’s calm and for just a breath, I can live in the moment. Yesterday was the same sort of day, whether 2009 or 2010. The day after tomorrow will be the same – and the next day, and the next. The difference between one year and the next is all in your head, and if you really want to you can make a fresh start any day and every day.

Never forget that.

But don’t let that stop you from getting rip-roaring drunk, either, because I damn well know I’m about to. Happy New Year!

…and I’m posting anyway. This morning on Twitter, @inkyelbows posted a link to the 1000 words / 500 words challenge; you pick one, and then try for the next year to write either 1000 words a day or 500 words a day for six days out of the week. If you make it more often than not, you keep posting the badge on your site. If you don’t, well, hang your head in shame and take the badge off.

I’m giving the 1000 words challenge a shot, if only because I think it’ll be a nice kick in the ass – until I forget about it / get sidetracked by life / get writer’s block, which I inevitably will. But maybe it’ll motivate me to pick up the pen again sooner. So I start today, after I finish work and some web design stuff I need to focus on. Maybe I’ll stick a widget in the sidebar to post daily status, or something.

Wish me luck.

As I always do after finishing a major project, I find myself standing at a crossroads with a dozen options stretching in all directions, unsure which way I want to go. I’ve had my downtime, remembered that I do have other fun interests beyond writing (“Make it so!”), and now that I’m refreshed and relaxed I’d like to get back to work.

But on what?

Rewrite’s done; so is the synopsis and the tweaked version of the query letter, and on January 4th (when the publishing industry wakes up again) I’ll likely start querying again. I could start revamping the sequel to go with the new storyline, but why? There’s no point until I’m sure the first will sell. So I have a few choices:

1. Waking Magic, also known as the crackfic. Fun, but probably a little too crazy to ever see the light of day. Plus I hit a wall, though I need to work past it sooner or later.
2. Icarus Burning, the sci-fi YA story about Gabriel.
3. The YA paranormal romance that’s puttering around the back of my mind, avoiding the light of day out of shame for what it is.
4. The YA otherworldly fantasy (not quite high fantasy, but kind of a tech-fantasy thing, non-Earth) that’s been playing at the edges of my imagination for a few days.
5. Darkling, a little middle-grade pile of cuteness that I’ve posted about on LJ but never talked about here.
6. Kowloon / Hak Nam.

Yes, there are a ton of other options, half-finished stories I’ve let stagnate over the years, concepts that ran themselves into the ground or that just never played out properly, things that were interesting at the time but are a little too dated now (like The Practical Guide to Being a Vampire – it’s funny, but I’m so tired of vampires and so is everyone else, to the point where even a mocking story playing on current tropes is still too much). But these are the ones at the front of my mind, whirling around like a merry-go-round and waiting for me to catch the ring.

I’ll figure it out. I’m probably going to reread what I have written for all of them, find the one that captures my imagination most and has the most potential, and then run with it from there.

Sometimes, though, I wish I had extra hands and extra brains so I could write four or five stories at once.

To end this on a less wistful, blah-blah-blah oh-god-not-more-pointless-talk-about-writing note, a conversation with someone in WoW the other day:

“You know, Adri, you really do have a poet’s soul.”
“Dear lord, I should hope not.”
“What? Why not?”
“What in bloody blue hell would I do with something as useless as that?”

Also, my neighbors will no longer be treated to me screeching “Jesus Christ donkeyballs!” when the broken hot water heater runs out mid-shower; landlord’s sending in the repairmen today. I’m sure parents are tired of explaining to their children what a donkey’s cojones have to do with their messiah.

Best Saturday night ever: DVDs of Star Trek: The Next Generation, homemade snowcones made with Bailey’s Irish Creme, and couch-snuggles with the boyfriend. No computers, no phones, nothing but quiet snow falling outside and both of us yelling “THAT’S NOT HOW INERTIA WORKS IN SPACE!” or “DAMMIT GEORDI, THAT’S SO FRICKIN’–NO! NO! YOU DON’T–GAH!” at the screen. Or cackling madly at Jean-Luc Picard’s awesomeness, and Counselor Troi’s godawful outfits. Seriously. Turquoise high-heeled slouch boots. No. Hell no.

Also, Worf. “Good tea. Nice house.”

And Santa should have brought me a uterus so I could have Brent Spiner’s creepy little love child.

After the insane stress of Christmas eve and, to some extent, Christmas day…I really needed this weekend to just lie back, relax, and not think about work, writing, or in-laws. Even when I have time off, I never really take time off. I never really shut down, instead always feeling like I should make productive use of the time (and even when I don’t, the expectation is hanging over my head to create the same pressure and stress as if I was working on something). Getting to cut loose and really relax this weekend shouldn’t be such a unique experience for me.

I need to do this more often.

(This is just copied from the ZU post about it, but eh, it covers the idea for people who got here through channels other than ZU.)

If you’re wondering why the move…~shrugs~ It was time. Zenunlimited.com started off as a meaningless name for a school project many years ago, and I’ve just made use of the domain since I happened to own it. I’m not exactly the type to assign deep personal meaning to everything, but I thought it was about time I moved my blog to a domain that was nonetheless more representative of…well…me. My writing, since this is my writing blog. The concept of nights in both the modern Kowloon area and the old Kowloon Walled City (and the many things that can happen there) encompasses many of the themes that factor strongly throughout my writing, and acts as something of a home for my imagination.

I’m not going to wank on about that in detail; I’m kind of gagging myself right now. Just trust that I have my reasons. KbN is just ZU with a new skin and a new domain name, so it’s not like I’m embarking on some extreme overhaul of my personal image on the web.

Oh, by the way, my e-mail address will stay the same.

Happy holidays, everyone. Whatever you choose to celebrate or whether you don’t at all, be good to yourselves and your loved ones – and find a reason to be happy, even if only for five minutes. There’s a new year coming, the start of a new decade, and with it the start of so many new possibilities.

Be well, be merry, be bright, and to my friends who read this…even when I’m silent, remember that I love you. Many of you have been with me for nearly ten years, sharing glimpses into your lives and stealing your way into mine, offering encouragement, sharing your own triumphs.

If I had to choose one thing to be happy about, it would be that.

Happy holidays.

These are no longer the days of perilous men.

Think about it. Look around you. Look at your house, your job, your significant other. Any minute, any second they could be taken from you, these creature comforts that make your life soft and complacent, that drive you in the same rhythm day after day. Would you fight for them? Would you give them up for something that mattered more? Or would you take the safe way out?

In 1877, thousands of men walked off the line in the great railroad strikes. They raised torches, burned buildings, destroyed locomotives, made their voices heard. Dozens died–and when they died, their deaths meant something. What will your death mean? Will you go down fighting for something that matters to you, or will you rot away in a nursing home somewhere, waiting for someone to change your diaper, mourning the lost years when you could have done something, anything?

I’ll tell you the choice I made. I chose to look the other way, chose to keep my mouth shut. And here I am, shitting my pants and waiting for Nurse Clara to sponge my ass dry and swap out my Depends. I can barely see this goddamned laptop, the cataracts are so bad. I should have died years ago. I think I wish I had, but I can’t die. If I die, everything’s forgotten.

And some things I can’t stand to forget.

I wish I stood for something. Once, I did. We all did. There were four of us, then. When there were only three, we asked each other what the hell it was all for.

I’ll tell you what it was for. It was for glory. For honor. It was for the magic that comes when you stand for something, when you truly think you can make a difference–because sometimes you do. It’s a risk, it’s a gamble, and we’re not a gambling society anymore. We’re all about the safety nets, the savings accounts, the padded walls that cushion the impact of life.

But sometimes you gamble, and you come up gold. We were gold, I tell you. We were gold.

This is the story of four boys who walked the wire. We thought to be perilous men. Maybe we were never a danger to anything but ourselves.

But for a while, we were beautiful.

——————————————

Not really sure what this is, where it’s going, or if it’ll go anywhere at all. Believe it or not, it popped into my head while I was watching the new Star Trek movie and thinking about how the message of the original show affected not just one generation, but every generation that followed. How it struck a chord with man’s need to explore, to adventure, to experience the unknown – to “boldly go where no man has gone before.”

And somehow that led to thinking of how most people don’t do extraordinary things anymore, wouldn’t even dream of it–because extraordinary things would jeopardize the promotion, the mortgage, the steady paycheck. And suddenly I’m seeing four gangly older boys in long, patched peacoats, scarves swaying, kicking up snow as they walk down a narrow street and rattle two-by-fours against rusted tin trash cans. And thinking, “These are no longer the days of perilous men.”