I am a winter child. I never make New Year resolutions.
One year ago today I was almost thirty-two and the thing I wanted most in the world was a new agent. Concerted efforts did not yield a result; instead, I sold two book proposals for nonfiction projects without benefit of professional assistance.
I decided to abandon another book, too dismal to contemplate, about danger and safety and having cancer as a child.
I was healthier and stronger than I had been in five years – but then ended up in the hospital, and emergency surgery, another much-delayed result of the disease that nearly killed me at age twelve.
Upon being released from the hospital I decided not to do one of the nonfiction books, but then finished the memoir I had decided to destroy. I don’t know what to make of this fact but the manuscript proceeds into the world.
Now? I am nearly thirty-three years old. I have every material thing I have ever wanted.
Tomorrow I will write letters to the people who made a difference in my life. Several are dead now; a few are beyond reach. I believe that I have a responsibility to contact those I can still find.
I want to thank my high school history teacher and tell her how important she was in my life. She took me aside and told me that I should go to college. She opened up the world in a tangible, practical way.
So to summarize: happy new year, and happy birthday to all the other sad winter babies.