Last night, I went to sleep hoping I could avoid the icy drive in the morning and sit at home with my work laptop, processing documents in my pajamas. Alas, the expected snow did some half-hearted acrobatics and failed to stick the landing, and by the time I slid onto my porch it was little more than a scraping of white icing on the roof next door. I was driving to work after all.

I live in the South, where asking people to drive in snow and ice is like asking a cat to walk when he's wearing a collar for the first time--a combination of tragic and hilarious. I don't claim to be much better, though I do know which way to turn the wheel if I start to slide. I wasn't surprised when, halfway to work, traffic slowed to a crawl.

I spotted flashing lights, but the smell of gasoline was the first indicator this wasn't the usual fender-bender. When my lane stopped, I glanced between the inching cars. The blackened husk of an overturned car steamed from inside a ring of emergency vehicles by the side of the road. There was no fire anymore, but it was clear the car had been blazing not too long before, though the shape of it was mostly intact. I hoped the driver and any passengers had made it out.

It was suddenly strange to think my largest concern not ten hours before was whether I could stay in my pajamas. Someone else has lost a car, possibly lost a love one; my day-to-day concerns can't compare to that. What if it had been me in that car? Would I be satisfied with my last petty concerns? Everything changes in an instant.

That sobering understanding got me thinking. I need to improve my way of living, because I don't want to have any regrets should my instant come. That may seem morbid to some, but when you're unhappy with how things stand in your life, the thought of not having the opportunity to change it is a bitter but strong motivation.

2012 saw two of the worst creative crashes I've ever had, brought on by my inability to adjust to a demanding work schedule and maintain a level of creativity I was happy with. I bit off more than I could chew, and I choked on it. Twice.

I began to doubt my ability to write well enough, revise fast enough, be organized enough to ever publish. I warred against a self-image no longer reflected in the 35 lbs I gained since leaving Japan or the skin problems I'd never had as a teen. I was too tired to write when I got home, but too busy trying to write to take care of myself or contribute to the chores at home consistently, which made me feel like a wretched slob.

I started personal training. It went well for a few months. I started Fit-2-Write. We managed three episodes before I hit my first crash.

I was scheduling every part of my day down to my two 15-minute breaks at work. I was doing two personal training lessons a week after work, D&D on a third, and trying to edit and post two podcasts. Also, I went to StellarCon, ConCarolinas, Sammy's wedding, and BaltiCon all before May. Saturday mornings, I was taking a class on Google+ with Cat Rambo. I was trying to revise the first 100 pages of The Mark if Flight, write a short story, read and comment on two short stories a week, update my blog, and plan out my next book and the revisions for HELLHOUND.

Then this happened: Do You Want to Do My Laundry?

Despite the playful tone, this post was coming on the back of a serious meltdown after a couple of major disappointments. I felt like I would never "get it together". I still feel like that.

I dropped everything, and when I'd finally stopped crying log enough to look at the detritus at my feet, I had no idea how to pick it all back up again. I'd latch onto something, wade a couple feet through the rest, and drop it again. I couldn't let go of any of it, but I couldn't figure out how to clean the mess of my creative life without shoving it all to the curb.

It was tough to fish out the things that mattered to me the most, and I felt unspeakably guilty for letting the others rest.

At the same time, 2012 was a year of many steps forward: I gained what felt like a whole new world of friends after meeting the other folks in the podcasting community face-to-face at BaltiCon. I hammered out two short stories, a novelette, the first six chapters of a new book, and yet another opening for The Mark of Flight, which is now beginning to resemble something like a pretty good book. I made a carved leather hat that actually looked like what I had in mind. I asked to be on panels at StellarCon and BaltiCon and was accepted. I was invited to attend and speak at New Media Expo. I took a couple of trips by myself and with friends, just because. I started kayaking again, bought a bike, and got a new car that makes me super happy.

That said, I refuse to have another year where the lows are as low as 2012's. So I did some soul-searching and tried to figure out what goals I could make this year that would help me live with fewer regrets. I'll split them up into personal and creative.

2013 GOALS

Personal

Get healthier - exercise, eat better, figure out the energy situation, ride my bike, relax
Go out and do things. With other human beings. And not just because I can use it in a story someday.
Spend more time outside doing things I enjoy, like biking or kayaking or camping.
Do more to maintain the apartment
Consistently pay all bills on time
Pay down credit card
Fill the well
Volunteer

Creative

Worry less about 'making it'
Chill, before this shit gives me heart problems
Finish first draft of Heretic's Resonance
Get Pendragon Variety - Issue#1 released
Make Season 2 of Pendragon Variety
Keep making friends who are awesome, supportive, and inspiring
Query MoF
Read more

I don't know if I'll be able to do all these things, and I'm almost certain I won't do them consistently. There's a certain measure of cognitive dissonance to pursuing your dreams during an economic recession. Last year it was cacophony. This year, we're gonna try to find the right key.

What are your personal and creative goals for 2013? Did you suffer any setbacks or disappointments last year? What improvements do you want to make?

Monday night, my roommate Skrybbi was up making piñatas, ten of them--pink and purple fringy things about the size of a six-year-old's head. All last week, our kitchen table was occupied by bowls of flour-water and strips of newspaper; crusty balloons covered in papier-mâché hung drying in our window. My roommate, bless her, is a teen librarian. Well, almost. You see, she's in graduate school right now so she can get paid like a librarian, and while her job title might actually be "librarian's assistant", there is no teen librarian. So it's her.

By now, you've probably gathered that Skrybbi is working full time, going to graduate school, and making piñatas. You might also be thinking she's crazy, but that's a topic for a different post.

What I'm getting at here is this: Skrybbi is busier than I am. I don't have grad school on top of my job. I don't have to spend a lot of my free time researching and making crafts for the teen programs. I spend my free-time writing. But if she wanted to, Skrybbi could do it too.

"I know very well that when I come home every day, I sit down in front of an episode of True Blood and you sit down in front of your computer to write," she told me today. Since we've been rooming together, I've noticed a few things: Skrybbi is super-busy, right? But she watches more TV than me, she goes to bed before me, and wakes up after. How can she be both busier than me, and having more relaxation and sleep-time? The answer: relaxation and sleep are not my priorities.

SACRIFICE

Nothing is more frustrating than telling someone you've just finished a manuscript and then hearing: "I wish I had that kind of free time."

Them's fightin' words, because you know what? If you really want to make time to write, you're going to have to sacrifice something.

STEP AWAY FROM THE SHEEP! (AND PUT SOME PANTS ON!) I'm not talking about daughters, deer, and sacred bovine. I'm talking about activities. Things you do. Fun things, or even things you consider necessary (like spending time with friends).

I give up a lot of things. I give up my weekends, my vacation time, Dr. Who and Torchwood, afternoons on the lake, getting back into rowing. I give up long phone calls with my mom, and going out with friends. I give up my Friday nights, and usually my Saturday nights too.

There is no magic button.

There are dishes in my sink, my laundry hamper is full, and I should probably clean out the cat-box. It's 12:13 AM, I have to get up at 6:30, and I haven't showered yet. If your schedule's anything like mine, you have about four hours in any given day to get stuff done...assuming you sleep eight hours, which I almost never do. I just finished a manuscript so this week is an exception, but usually when I get home from work, I don't sit down in front of the TV or go to the gym. I don't grab the latest George R R Martin book and let it eat my face. I don't call my friends. I don't hop in the shower. I might be slightly guilty of playing Angry Birds and checking my email, but the ONLY thing I'm thinking about is getting my hands on that keyboard.

Sometimes I go grudgingly, and sometimes I putter around the internet instead of writing, but I do write, and usually for much longer than I should. Then I get to choose between a shower and having six hours of sleep rather than five and a half...

Yes. I shower. But then it's this again:

There are days when I would LOVE for things like TV, workouts, showers, and friends to be my priority. It would be awesome to sit down in front of a few episodes of Avatar and not feel guilty because I could be writing.

I don't have a time-turner (okay, I do, but it's fake) and I don't have 28-hour days, but I do have my priorities established.

But I'm Le Tired...

Sometimes I walk in after work and the overwhelming amount of dishes and the daily disaster of the cats chasing each other around the apartment (and Dragon*Con costume-making) takes precedence. By the time I'm done straightening and eating and all that, I don't want to write. All I want is sweatpants, a cup of Earl Gray, and David Tennant, although not necessarily in that order. We all have those days, and that's fine...but if you're feeling that way every day, you might be letting yourself off too easily.

Some people work twelve hours a day, have kids, have spouses, and still manage to eke out time for writing. It can be hard, and when life explodes it can be damn near impossible, but if you want to write, stop waiting for the Writer's Conspiracy to abduct you in the night, hand you the mask and robes, and give you the Inverted Pendulum of +5 Chrono-retardation. (...wait what?)

Why wait for a magical future time when the day has 28 hours and working from 9 - 6 suddenly isn't exhausting? When exactly is that going to happen? I'm hoping to stay busy, because if I'm not busy in this economy, it means I'm unemployed. Been there. Not cool.

Writing will become a habit. You can argue if it's good or healthy or obsessive, but the results are there: I produce work. I get the stories out of my head, and then I try to get them as close to perfect as possible.

So that's it. That's the big secret: you DO have time to write.

Still don't believe me? Tell me why:

Talk to me, gorgeous: Where does writing fall in your list of priorities? Do you have time to write? What have you sacrificed to have that time? Do you have any suggestions to make time?

Goals for 2013

Making Time to Write