Sarah Kanning

It’s early in January, so I’ve been indulging in my not-so-secret vice: self-help books. I have no problem confessing (hell, bragging) about my love of genre fiction to any and all, but confessing to reading self-help books? Well, I do it. And sometimes I pick up tips that are very useful.

So I’ve been reading This Year I Will… by M. J. Ryan, which is about focusing on what you really want to accomplish, narrowing down to ONE goal (that’s the hard part for me), making a plan, and then actually doing it.

That last item is key. A joke the author tells: “Five frogs are sitting on a log. One of them decides to jump off. How many are left? Answer: Five, because deciding is not doing.”

Anyway, I was happily journaling and making lists and narrowing down the choices and such on Saturday, and came up with a pretty specific writing goal (completing two major writing projects this year) AND a fitness goal (getting fit enough to run a mile without stopping and/or gasping for breath like a mackerel in the bottom of a fishing boat).

“I can really do both of those,” I thought. “No problem.” I wrote out the next couple of steps for both of the goals (buying a new pair of sneakers, setting some attainable daily writing goals, etc.), and went off to dinner at a friend’s house.

As I was leaving the house to head home, I stepped out onto the front step. CRUNCH. My ankle turned. On nothing. I hadn’t tripped over anything, just somehow misjudged the depth of the step. The porch was well-lit, I was sober, there wasn’t any reason for me to twist my ankle, but I did, and went down like a sack of potatoes. If a sack of potatoes could scream in agony.

I got home (with help), iced it, elevated it, popped a few ibuprofen tablets, and had plenty of time for contemplation over the next 24 hours.

When overly dramatic things happened seemingly out of nowhere, my grandfather used to say this: “The Lord is trying to tell you something. Don’t be too goddamned stupid to get the message.” I didn’t see this as a Message from Beyond, but given the circumstances, I figured I’d better at least entertain the possibility that there was some message in all this. Especially since by now I’m (nearly) used to the other parts of my brain rebelling when my conscious brain is doing (or about to do) something dumb.

“Okay, okay, I get it!” I finally said. “This year I will be focusing exclusively on my writing goal.” Luckily, I need some physical activity and a reasonable diet to keep the creative juices flowing — but the health stuff is clearly subordinate to the writing stuff. (Are you listening, hindbrain?)

Ryan, the author of the book, also recommends naming this “The Year of…” So I’m doing “The Year of the Writing Life,” and clearly there are parts of me that are fully committed. Stay tuned.