Weaving a whimsical spell, writing down my new year’s resolutions always rallies my will, on paper at least. Like praying, writing down my hopes for the impending year makes them definable, describable and ultimately obtainable goals.

Moving through my agenda for 2009 feels like moving through a wish list for Christmas.
Typing my annual roster of to-dos—I am a child of the 21st century and writing is so 1890—I realized the list is an odd assortment of wishes over which I have little real control. Sure I will most likely accomplish item number five: learn to ice skate. I’m not as certain I will manifest item number one: pursuing publication of one short story. Perhaps simply drafting the list is therapeutic, and where each item ranks in priority is rather telling.

Of course, each item is shaded with the allusion of control. I may not have included the desire for a million dollars land in my lap. However pursuing the publication of one of my stories feels like resolving to always sit straight in my chair with my knees braced just in case a suitcase stuff with hundred-dollar bills lands in my lap.