shamousk

About a year ago — a month after my 40th birthday — I realized how stupid New Year’s resolutions were.

Illogical, perhaps, is a better word.

But not in concept. Specifically, I’m talking about the absurdity of collectively setting goals in January, only to (more often than not) lose all resolve and forget the entire affair before the end of the first quarter.

The hollow, repetitive cycle has rendered this tradition banal.

Why does that matter? Because by ritualizing resolutions into our calendar, we have, in this writer’s opinion, devalued and stripped an otherwise noble custom of its vital role in self-actualization, development, and care.

Think about it.

What were your top resolutions this year?

Chances are, one was also a headliner last year … and the year before.

That’s right — you, me, and everyone we know wants to be healthier.

Whatever form of diet or exercise it takes, getting into shape is a staple and tops the list for most American adults.

But as Bernie Sanders likes to say, let’s be clear: This isn’t an American phenomenon.

The same is true here in Canada. And before you get ideas about the health utopia of Europe, it seems things are no different in the UK, France, Germany, Denmark, or Croatia either.

Everywhere you look, people want to eat better and be fitter. That’s why year after year, there’s an uptick in new gym memberships in January. But most won’t be surprised to learn that by June, half of those newcomers abandon the quest altogether.

But what causes people to put down the kettlebells and pick up the Kettle chips? Why does lifting so quickly turn into scrolling? Why are so many resolutions flopping? What happened to everyone’s resolve?

There are many factors to consider, but I want to highlight one:

Resolutions ought to be avowed and assessed from birthday to birthday, not January to January. Right?!

Can you even unthink that idea?

It makes resolutions more meaningful. More powerful. It gives you a reason to look forward to your birthday (as I do) with the zeal of a toddler.

Motivation and accountability work together. Your goals are personal and intrinsic, but also extrinsic, because you know someone is always setting new resolutions and reviewing their progress from last year.

Instead of having the same tawdry conversation about resolutions around the holidays, it would give you something more interesting to talk about at birthday parties. It could even solve the problem of gyms getting over-packed in the first few weeks of January.

Making resolutions on your birthday makes more sense. The day you are a year older, not the Gregorian calendar.

So after my 40th last year, that’s what I started doing.

I began the year in northern Colombia, but by the first week of January, I’d arrived in Buenos Aires.

There, I resolved to write a book (Resolution 40) and spent three electric months feverishly creating my first work of fiction, So What: Short Stories — Big Questions.

It was the best three months of my life.

The experience was thrilling. I use the superlative intentionally. It was exhilarating. Most evenings, when fatigue prevented me from continuing, I’d go to bed giddy for the prospect of the morning, fresh and ready to get back to it.

Never in my life, before or since, have I felt such fervour for my work.

I self-published in April, proud of my effort to learn about the process along the way. I'm also proud of the stories, though acutely aware of their many shortcomings.

I knew the possibility of selling many copies was slim. But I’d be remiss if I didn’t confess, like all first-time publishers, I had the sanguine belief that the stories would resonate.

That the potential in my voice would be seen. That somehow, I’d get lucky, be discovered, and sales would proliferate. Cha Ching!

Spoiler alert. I sold seventy-five copies.

As a certain someone would say, sad.

That’s when I realized I’d spent all my time focusing on the product — tinkering with the syntax like I’m splitting the atom — governed by the belief that if the writing is good, the readers will come.

But what I learned last year, along with my brilliant friend and entrepreneur, is that good ideas are of little consequence without a clear, strategic, and dynamic marketing strategy.

**Welcome to Hell ** After three months of following my bliss — giving life to ideas and playing with words — I spent the next little while clumsily (and futilely) trying to sell my book.

That’s when I essentially first considered marketing. After publishing. That should tell you enough about how little I understood the game.

I have no delusions that, unlike the industrious effort that went into writing and editing, my marketing attempts were dispassionate.

Lackadaisical. Half-hearted.

It was dreadful. I hated it. I still do.

Eventually, I stopped altogether.

For the rest of the year, I oscillated between despondence and dejection. I was demoralized. The disappointment of my book amounting to nothing more than a depleted bank account and a bruised ego had become my only way of framing things.

Then, at dinner with a friend one evening, after recounting stories of happy delirium from the trenches of writing, I spoke of my marketing failures, financial woes, and disillusionment.

After a few minutes, she stopped me.

“Stop. Go back,” she said. “This all sounds depressing. You should do the part you love. Write another book. Write two. Let the first fester and forget marketing for now. Don’t spin your wheels on that. Find some way to make a little money and write another book.”

**Follow your bliss. ** Despite the pit of despair I’d dug up for myself over the last six months, I found relief in the notion that I didn’t have to do any marketing.

Is it something I must eventually confront if I want to be a writer who is read, versus one who simply writes? Yes.

Is that something that matters now? Absolutely not.

For six months, I lost myself looking for validation, desperately trying to promote sales and solicit reviews. And when progress was slow, and I loathed the process and stopped, it felt as though I’d quit on myself. I’d failed.

But nothing could be further from the truth.

I now realize my first book was a success precisely because writing it gave me the greatest thrill I’ve ever experienced. Not publishing, sharing it with others, getting reviews, or selling my first fifty copies. All that was cool, yes, without a doubt. But the writing itself — that was the good stuff.

I was in Germany six weeks ago, on the morning of the first day of the year — my birthday.

I achieved the goal I set for myself last year.

I’m also now working on Resolution 41:

To write another book.

Would love to get some thoughts on this initial part of a story I'm woking on:

One without the Other

Elizabeth pushed through the double-acting doors to find Simon and Praveen squabbling in front of the entire staff, who were frozen at their workstations, pretending not to listen.

“You’re a disgrace to the profession, Simon,” Praveen snapped. “This isn’t a scullery. You see this? This is a Turbofan E32D5. It’s a Moffat, a six-thousand-dollar piece of machinery. I had to beg Elizabeth to let me buy it. And look, hardly three months in, and there are signs of early oxidation. You, sir, are a perfect example of why we can’t have nice things. I haven’t the slightest idea what Elizabeth sees in you, but here we are. Can you at least pretend to respect what I do?”

“Ha!” Simon snorted indignantly. “That,” he pointed to the Turbofan, “is not oxidation. I can get it clean in a heartbeat. And Lisbeth hired me because I have the vision to push culinary boundaries. To create something new. You—”

“That is oxidation, Simon,” Praveen cut him off. “Otherwise, it would have come off when I tried to clean it five minutes ago. This is what I’m talking about. Where’s your attention to detail? You’re the only CDC I’ve met who treats his workspace like an art studio.”

“What about you? Making madeleines and canelés and acting like you’re in a science lab!”

“Cooking is chemistry, Simon,” Praveen said, trying to keep himself composed.

“No, Praveen. Baking is chemistry. You follow a recipe, you get a result. Congratulations. Cooking? That’s craft,” Simon shot back.

Neither of them had noticed Elizabeth, their culinary director and boss, standing in the doorway. This was the second time this month she’d walked in on them bickering. The restaurant sommelier—with whom Elizabeth was having an affair—had reported at least four more altercations between them. The spats may well have become daily episodes.

Three weeks earlier, a fire in the adjacent building had damaged part of the wall in the upstairs kitchen. This meant that both her chef de cuisine and pâtissier were to share one workspace during emergency renovations. Elizabeth expected there would be a few contretemps, but nothing like what had transpired.

“Boys! Enough!” Her words cut through the room, instantly stopping the argument. “It’s getting rather tired, don’t you think, all this quarreling? Hmm?”

Both men looked like they’d been caught with their hands in the biscuit tin.

“You both deserve to be here,” Elizabeth said, taking off her coat and slinging it over her arm. She took a few moments to look around before returning her gaze to Simon and Praveen. “A lot more thought went into your hiring than either of you realizes. And to think: the men I’ve put in charge are constantly squabbling like children. What does that say about my judgment, huh? Did you think about that? I have bosses too, you know. And I promise you, if changes have to be made, you’ll both be replaced. I’ll see to it personally. So don’t even think about pulling me aside to poison me on the other. I’m sorry about the space squeeze. I know it’s not ideal, but the work upstairs is temporary. Two weeks. Three at the most, and you can have your kitchen back, Praveen. But until then, you’ll share this space, and the fighting needs to stop. We’re going to figure out how to do that today. Understood?”

Simon, who’d retreated to the cold station and was practically standing behind his garde-manger, nodded and said, “Okay.”

Praveen, stationed behind a speed rack looking at Elizabeth through freshly baked croissants, also nodded, muttering, “Agreed. Yes. Let’s.”

“Splendid. Now, I’m going to fix myself a cappuccino and meet you in the dining room in ten minutes. Everyone else, please get back to work. Oh, and Praveen, bring a few of those madeleines, would you? I happen to have it on good authority that Simon has described eating them as biting into a cloud.”