It’s New Year’s Eve, here in Australasia. For your sake and for mine I hope that 2022 somehow manages to be a better year for all of us.
I’m a bit pessimistic about the chances, sadly. I don’t think we’re anywhere near the end of Covid-19 yet. So a lot of fun things, like travel, and smiling at someone in a pub or a gig and that possibly leading to conversation and perhaps sex: those things are going to be off the table for a while.
Creatively it’s a real opportunity. I’m stuck at home, trying to keep visits to the supermarket to a minimum, so I’m doing a lot of writing. I finished two substantial books this year. Well, The Other Guy, the mainstream literary writer, did, and that’s a pretty solid achievement.
My finances are getting better. So that’s good. I’m getting fitter again, after doing some serious work sitting on a chair typing, for all of 2020 and too much of 2021. But I’ve got the work/life balance back under control, and I’m running and lifting weights. I now fit into some old pants I’d kind of outgrown. Long way to go (and Christmas/New Year hasn’t exactly helped), but I’m getting there.
I’ll make – I hereby make – a commitment to getting out, ie publishing, one piece of erotica a month for 2022. I have enough written to do that easily.
And I guess I’ll try to have a meeting of the local BDSM group. Maybe I can do it safely outside. I got chairs and long tables, and it should be possible to manage it safely, with social distancing and all.
So my resolutions, as Jaime Mortimer, are to get published more, and to get out and about a tad more, too. As far as that can be done safely in the current circumstances.
Happy New Year!