A New Year, Apparently

The old year has passed, and a new one started. I didn’t even notice. New Year’s Eve, I went to bed early. Honestly, it’s just not the same without Dick Clark. January 1st is just another day, really. You still have to work, and life is still life.

While I’m not interested in resolutions, I still like to pause and reflect on the past year and look ahead to the new one. I’ve been working on a new novel, which will be published later this year. It’s a work of literary fiction about love and loss, and a deliberate shift away from House of Fate. If you know me, you know I don’t like to stay in a single genre. I’ll talk more about it as it gets closer to release.

I’ve also submitted a few short stories and received a few rejections. Par for the course in the life of a writer. I haven’t heard from all of them, so I have some hope for the new year to bring something other than, “Thank you for submitting your story; however…”

I don’t lack ideas for things to work on. I have a plethora of stories at various stages of development. Throughout my cabin, there are notes jotted on scrap paper, outlines typed on my Remington 5 (I like to think using it connects me to writers like Dashiell Hammett and James Cain), notebooks stuffed with pictures and stuff cut out from newspapers with ideas scrawled with my fountain pen, and sticky notes on my monitor. I also have a few completed first drafts in some crates. I keep them because I never know what they might turn into. A novel? A short story? A painting? It’s chaotic, but it’s my method.

If there’s anything I hope for this year, it’s this: more writing, more painting, and less procrastination. Squirrel says I should add, “get out more,” but he really means, “hit the bars.” That’s his thing, not mine. I’ve given up trying to explain to him that raccoons aren’t allowed in bars. He still thinks we can find one that will. He shouldn’t drink anyway because he just ends up drawing stupid author portraits, and scratching my records and DVDs. I’d rather stick around the homestead and write. If we, perchance, found a bar that would let in a saucy raccoon, he’d just embarrass me.

So, here’s to a new year, and may it bring a few victories that actually mean something. And to all of you, I hope 2026 treats you well. If it doesn’t, then may you outlast the parts that try to wear you down.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a drunk raccoon to deal with.