Something happens to me around this time every year. I become determined to turn over a new leaf and get busy and morph into a person I don't even recognize.
I bustle around cleaning and vacuuming. I start thinking seriously about pulling out the fridge and cleaning behind it. I want shiny floors and gleaming tables. Fresh floral centerpieces are contemplated. I go and dig the weeds in my garden and make ambitious plans for new pathways and patios. I want to make warm nutritious meals for my family and bake pies and cakes. I think about sewing and that a major repaint of the upstairs hallway is an ideal project. In short, I am nauseating.
This determination extends to my writing. I will get those two new games up and running. I will finish fiddling with my short story and actually print it out and submit the sucker for publication. I set lofty goals for completing my novel within a month.
I know that after a few days I will return to my slovenly ways and the gleam on my tables and the shine on my floors will fade. I will think that ironing sheets is an insane waste of time and not worry if my linen cupboard isn't Martha Stewart-worthy. The writing goals will stay in place. Writing is like laundry - there's always something new in the basket.