December 31, 2017 (early, before the wine)

My diary is blank. I have no resolutions to scribe, nor or there any challenges intriguing enough to tempt me to kick status quo to the curb. Why mess with mediocracy when it works. No point in adding strife or braving the underbelly of life when it comes pre-wired with obstacles and hidden landlines. Safe and boring has a place in the day-to-day.

Later, after the wine and bubbly

A crushing force pushes out the stale air left behind after a long night of celebrations. The clock is ticking steadfast to the golden moment when the past and future kiss lips long enough for sparks to ignite. I grasp the edge of the oak kitchen table to stop the swirling. If only it were the fourth glass of Chardonnay disrupting my numbed subconscious. I attributed the giddiness to my overindulgence, but it’s the egregious awareness that’s spurred my mind into reconsidering. Motivation bubbles beneath the surface. Damn.

January 2, 2018

I flipped open my journal on the second day of the New Year to read what I wrote in my last entry. I half sigh, half groan. My cowardliness pisses off my inner Rocky and sparks an internal debate.

Sylvester, groggy and desperate for Rye flavored coffee is awake and spitting mad. “Writing your goals for the coming year makes it real. The exercise will kick your Latina ass into accepting the challenge of stepping outside of your comfort zone. Don’t be a wimp. Shoot for the stars,” he growls.

“Why bother reaching when we rarely do anything noteworthy? Embrace your averageness. Let aspiration go the way of the iPhone 7.” Debbie Doubt, coos.

I’ve heard their arguments before, the Ying and Yang of my whole, battling over the fragile ground of my artistic heart. It’s a bloody battle. Morning beckons, but the effort to consider their opposing views overwhelms me. I slam the journal shut hoping to escape the glare of the half-empty page and its accusations of vagrancy, but it’s too late, I’ve lingered too long. Action calls me forth to end the argument. I consider my past, the future, and heave a heavy sigh. No way am I going to get away with nothing. I have to commit.

tick tock tick tock.

To escape judgment from both of my halves, I jot down a list of achievable goals.

My anti-resolution list:

  1. I will not lose weight.
  2. Baking is too hard to learn and outside of your reach.
  3. There is no power strong enough to compel me to write every day.
  4. And you can forget the three novels waiting for the editor’s red pen.
  5. Why read new books when I can binge watch Netflix.
  6. No way am I going to socialize my failures.


Once I’ve filled the blank page of my pink journal my breathing eases. My light and dark selves have scurried back to their respective corners licking their wounds. The inviting quiet of the morning calms the frenzy in my head. I slither under the covers, impressed with my firm hand of action.

Minutes later the chiming of the phone alarm breaks my short-lived peace. Time for work.


What are your anti-resolutions for 2018?


Baking! Who knew I could bake:

Blueberry-Cornmeal Skillet Cake