I don’t have any goals for 2025. I’m not making resolutions. I don’t have any defined plans. I haven’t made a vision board.
I bought myself an art journal and I have a whole giant tub, you know the big rubbermaid ones that you use for old clothes and camping supplies, filled with magazines. I might make some collages. In 2024, I made a few digital collages which was a fun, low-stakes way to stay creative. I like doing physical art, though, with actual scissors and glue. I like making art with my hands and the smells and mess that comes along with it.
A little voice inside me, an urgent but optimistic one, tells me I ought to keep working on my novel. “There’s someone out there who needs to read that. Maybe more than one someone’s,” she whispers. I don’t have a word count goal or deadline, but I want to listen to her. I think she might be right.
I want to actually try some of the creative kid projects I’ve pinned on my ever-growing Pinterest board. My children always have the best ideas.
Maybe I’ve never liked setting goals because they feel like traps. What if I decide halfway through the year I no longer want to write five short stories? What if something else comes along that’s better?
I want to go where my curiosity takes me.