It’s New Year’s Eve. The last day of 2021. A new year begins tomorrow, full of hope and promise and possibilities.
When 2021 dawned, I expected an end to the pandemic. A new, more reasonable power structure in Washington D.C. And a better year all around. Unfortunately, the pandemic continues, and life may never return to pre-pandemic status. Politics continue to disappoint, but there’s nothing new there, and at least we have a reasonable adult in the Oval Office.
In many ways 2021 was a disappointment. For me as a writer, the doldrums struck. I weathered 2020 well. I’m retired and enjoying my status as hermit-in-residence, so isolating wasn’t the personal hardship many others endured. I wrote and lived happily in my imagined worlds. But I expected more of 2021, and when that more didn’t materialize, my writing dried up. Oh. I still completed stories, but not at the same level of production. No new novels were written in 2021. I just couldn’t find the focus… or the desire.
I’m planning for 2022 to be different. Mainly because I’m prepared for the pandemic to continue, for the world to remain unsettled. Plus, I’m determined to force myself to focus. Enough wallowing. Time to get on with the work at hand.
So, farewell, 2021. I can’t say I’m sorry to see you leave.
