Two new years begin soon. As for anyone who has never left school, the end of August marks the beginning of a new year and the end of that strange and shapeless in-between time that is not part of a year at all. Some people term this time "summer;" I call it "the time of the year I cannot wear boots."*
The beginning of October marks the end of a decade and looks like the beginning of a new one.
I am plotting strange and wonderful plans for these new years.
I am going to begin pouring words into chapter 2 any day now--perhaps even today. I have been shaping the container all summer and I think it might be ready to hold the words that will make it visible. I, naturally, will not know if this is the case until I have poured a great number of words into the chapter. Lately, like a potter, I've been gliding my hands on on unformed, sloppy, wet shape. Later, like a sculptor, I will chisel at existing words to finesse that shape.
I am going to learn how to read poetry. This might be even more difficult than writing my dissertation. Suggestions welcome. I cannot remain illiterate any longer.
I may work on my sewing skills. I may learn to knit. I will become a pro at baking bread.
I will travel this year. I don't think it even matters where I go. I need to see new things. I need to learn to navigate new surroundings.
*except for last summer, which was exceptional