The Living Christ

Several months ago, I asked myself how I could make my Sabbath-day worship more meaningful, and one of the thoughts I had was that I could memorize "The Living Christ." This proclamation was issued on January 1, 2000, a few weeks before my sixteenth birthday, by fifteen men who stand as special witnesses of Jesus Christ. On last Sunday, exactly one week before Christmas, I memorized the last paragraph, so in keeping with this Christmas season, I thought I'd share it with you.

What follows is my recitation of "The Living Christ." I typed it out just before I wrote this introduction and only referred to my own memory. As such, I probably messed up some of the punctuation and/or capitalization, but I hope the words themselves are accurate. (I did go in and add the scripture references after the fact, though the quotation marks are mine.)

As we commemorate the birth of Jesus Christ two millennia ago, we offer our testimony of the reality of his matchless life and the infinite virtue of his great atoning sacrifice. None other has had so profound an influence upon all who have lived and will yet live upon the earth.

He was the Great Jehovah of the Old Testament, the Messiah of the New. Under the direction of his Father, he was the creator of the earth. “All things were made by him, and without him was not anything made that was made” (John 1:3). Though sinless, he was baptized to fulfill all righteousness. He “went about doing good” (Acts 10:38), yet was despised for it. His gospel was a message of peace and goodwill. He entreated all to follow his example. He walked the roads of Palestine, healing the sick, causing the blind to see, and raising the dead. He taught the truths of eternity, the reality of our premortal existence, the purpose of our life on earth, and the potential for the sons and daughters of God in the life to come.

He instituted the sacrament as a reminder of his great atoning sacrifice. He was arrested and condemned on spurious charges, convicted to satisfy a mob, and sentenced to die on Calvary’s cross. He gave his life to atone for the sins of all mankind. His was a great vicarious gift in behalf of all who would ever live upon the earth.

We solemnly testify that his life, which was central to all human history, neither began in Bethlehem nor concluded on Calvary. He was the Firstborn of the Father, the Only Begotten Son in the flesh, the Redeemer of the world.

He rose from the grave to become “the first fruits of them that slept” (1 Corinthians 15:20). As Risen Lord, he visited among those he had loved in life. He also ministered among his “other sheep” (John 10:16) in ancient America. In the modern world, he and his Father appeared to the boy Joseph Smith, ushering in the long-promised “dispensation of the fullness of times” (Ephesians 1:10).

Of the Living Christ, the Prophet Joseph wrote: “His eyes were as a flame of fire, the hair of his head was white like the pure snow, his countenance shone above the brightness of the sun, and his voice was as the sound of the rushing of great waters, even the voice of Jehovah, saying:

“I am the First and the Last. I am he who liveth; I am he who was slain. I am your advocate with the Father” (D&C 110:3-4).

Of him, the Prophet also wrote: “And now, after the many testimonies which have been given of him, this is the testimony last of all, which we give of him: that he lives!

“For we saw him, even on the right hand of God, and we heard the voice bearing record that he is the Only Begotten of the Father;

“That by him, and through him, and of him, the worlds are and were created, and the inhabitants thereof are begotten sons and daughters unto God” (D&C 76:22-24).

We declare in words of solemnity that his priesthood and his church have been restored upon the earth--“built upon the foundation of apostles and prophets, Jesus Christ himself being the chief cornerstone” (Ephesians 2:20).

We testify that he will someday return to earth. “And the glory of the Lord shall be revealed, and all flesh shall see it together” (Isaiah 40:5). He will reign as king of kings and rule as lord of lords, and every knee shall bend and every tongue shall speak in worship before him. Each of us will stand to be judged of him according to our works and the desires of our hearts.

We bear testimony, as his duly ordained apostles--that Jesus is the Living Christ, the immortal Son of God. He is the great King Immanuel, who stands today at the right hand of his Father. He is the light, the life, and the hope of the world. His way is the path that leads to happiness in this life and eternal life in the world to come. God be thanked for the matchless gift of his divine Son.

In memorizing these powerful words, I hope that I can claim, at least in some small way, this beautiful testimony as my own.

*If you have any questions or comments, feel free to leave them below. Conversely, if your question or comment is of a more personal nature, you're always more than welcome to e-mail me at kvandolzer(at)gmail(dot)com.

When Enough Isn't Enough

I've been unhappy several times the last couple of months. More than several times, actually, and every time I feel myself succumbing to despair, I also feel guilty. "Buck up," I tell myself. "Why are you so sad? Is it because you're still struggling to achieve your lifelong dream? Oh, wait, you already did that."

Now don't get me wrong--I'm absolutely thrilled that Steve is getting published. But with Clyde still on submission, I've transferred all my worrying to him: "Yep, it's gonna stink if, after everything, Clyde still doesn't sell. You may have succeeded in the past, but you'll probably fall flat with this. And that's gonna drive you crazy, isn't it? That's gonna ruin everything."

Do any of you watch Frasier? I've probably seen every episode two, three, maybe four times, and one of my favorites is when Frasier is the subject of a focus group. He's a radio psychiatrist who hosts a daily call-in show, and in this episode, his station puts together a focus group to critique his program. Frasier watches from the other side of a one-way mirror, but the mirror probably isn't necessary. Eleven out of twelve participants give him glowing reviews. But the twelfth participant is less enthusiastic. He doesn't say anything negative, but he doesn't say anything positive, either. Eleven out of twelve people absolutely love him, but Frasier can't stop thinking about the one guy who (sort of) didn't.

Afterward, Frasier tails the twelfth participant to the man's newsstand and literally begs him for feedback. He's certain he can win him over if only the man will tell him what to fix. Finally, the man admits he just doesn't like Frasier, and through a series of mishaps, Frasier ends up burning down the man's newsstand.

I read this article the other day on this same phenomenon (as well as this article and this one, which the author linked to in her post). I found myself nodding the whole time, because this is exactly what I've been feeling lately. No matter how many things I have, I always seem to fixate on the things I don't (even when what I have is pretty great). I agreed with everything they said, but it was what they didn't say that rubbed me wrong.

All three authors seemed to think this lack of contentment was okay.

Well, maybe not okay so much as inevitable. This is just how writers are, they said, so we just have to accept it and move on. But I don't think it's good enough to say that this is good enough. We're ALL like this to some degree, writer or no, ambitious or not, but it's not okay to roll over and chalk our weaknesses up to human nature. I truly think we're here to become more than what we are.

I'm not there yet, but that's my goal. I want to learn how to be happy with the things I have, how to ignore that awful voice inside my head that tells me I'm not good or smart or brave enough. It's a lesson I've been trying to learn for quite some time, as you can see, but I'm not giving up yet. It's not over until the end.

The Brothers, the Woods, and the Future

Once upon a time, two brothers went for a walk in the woods, and on their way, they met the Future. She was neither pretty nor plain, short nor tall, fat nor thin. She simply was. The brothers had never crossed the Future’s path before, but they still recognized her, for her eyes were as deep as mountain springs and her shoulders seemed to bear a heavy load.

“I would show you your futures,” she whispered, though it cut them to the very core. “Then you may ask a single question. But ask wisely, humble brothers, for questions do not always produce their intended answers.”

The elder brother stepped around his younger, as was his right. “Show me my future,” he demanded.

“As you wish,” the Future said, and with a tip of her head, the forest faded.

A new scene rose up around them. The elder brother knew it well, for it was the workshop where he fashioned the tables and chairs that filled his village. He loved his occupation and took pride in his work, but the simple farmers for whom he toiled knew nothing of artistry. They did not appreciate his skill, but he did. Oh, he did.

As he watched himself multiply tables, each one slightly bigger and grander than the last, the elder brother grew angry. He would wear out his life on these undeserving peasants. Then someone rapped on his door. It was one of the king’s heralds, and as nearby trumpeters blasted a fanfare, the king himself alighted from a carriage and landed on the workshop’s doorstep. The king had heard of his work; his tables and chairs were much admired in the capital. The elder brother’s heart pounded as he watched the king commission him to construct the finest table and chairs he had ever constructed, with a sideboard to match. The herald set a sack of gold on the doorstep at his feet, and as the king promised him more and climbed back into his carriage, the elder brother could already feel the weight of that sack in his hands.

The vision closed, and no sooner had the woods drifted back into focus than the elder brother asked, “When will these things come to pass?”

The Future considered him for a long moment, then, finally, said, “Five years from this very day.”

The elder brother sneered, then pressed his lips into a line. “If I must wait five years, then five years I will wait.” And with that, he stalked away, leaving his brother to face the Future alone.

The younger brother watched his elder go, then turned back toward the Future. “Would you show me my future also?”

“I would,” the Future said, “for I only speak the truth.”

He licked his lips, then mumbled, “Very well.”

“As you wish,” the Future said, and with a tip of her head, the forest faded.

A new scene rose up around them. The younger brother knew it well, for it was the bakery where he made the bread that adorned his brother’s tables. He loved his occupation and took pride in his work, but there was something he loved even more, and that was the woman who entered the bakery and dinged the cheerful bell.

She bought bread every day for her invalid mother, but on this day of days, he gave her a tiny cake with frosting like lace and sprinkles like stars. When she took her first and only bite, she bit into a ring. The younger brother blushed at the thought of such forthrightness, but when the woman said yes, his embarrassment melted away.

Another scene rose up around them. The younger brother knew this place as well, for it was the home that he had lived in since he was a boy. As he watched, his own boys raced by one by one, tiny heels thumping the wooden boards he and his brother had worn smooth. The home was adjacent to the bakery, and life was simple but rich. Then one night while they slumbered, the oven flared to life, consuming the bakery, the home, two of his boys, and his dear wife. As he watched his life’s work turn to ash before his very eyes, the younger brother thought he could smell the smoke of that faraway night.

The vision closed, and no sooner had the woods drifted back into focus than the younger brother whispered, “Must these things come to pass?”

The Future smiled knowingly. “No, for though I only speak the truth, I only speak one of many. The future is as inscrutable as the face of the wind.”

The younger brother wiped his eyes. “Then I will labor to ensure that this one remains a vision.”

“As you wish,” the Future said, and with a tip of her head, she disappeared.

#

Years passed, and the younger brother took nothing for granted. He courted the woman who always bought bread for her invalid mother, and when he asked her to marry him, he simply handed her the ring. He dashed his fire every night and brought it back to life every morning, though it cost him much sleep. He never forgot the vision the Future had shown him. He forged his own path.

On the other hand, the elder brother did nothing to secure the vision the Future had shown him. He daydreamed by his woodpile and hardly set foot in his workshop, content to waste his days as the five years trickled past. But five years came and went, then seven, then ten, and the king never came. He drank much and laughed little. Finally, when he could bear his own stench no longer, the elder brother roused himself and stumbled to the home that had once belonged to him.

“You saw my future!” he exclaimed, falling to his knees before his brother.

“Yes,” the younger brother said. “But you did not see mine.”

The elder brother blinked. “I do not understand.”

The younger brother smiled sadly. “You did not improve the time that the Future gave you, so you did not become the carpenter that you might have been.” He drew his brother up. “The future is as inscrutable as the face of the wind.”

The elder brother blinked again, but this time, he understood. He went away sorrowing, having lost that which he had never had.

"Give Me This Mountain"

I don't like to interrupt rounds of "An Agent's Inbox," but the blogging bug bit me last night, and I couldn't hold this in. Besides, since so many of you are hanging around to see how the contest plays out, I figure I have a captive audience:) Hope you enjoy!

Not long after Moses led the children of Israel out of Egypt, he sent a small group of scouts to the land of Canaan to see what they could see. All but two of the scouts returned with the report that the Promised Land was crawling with giants and dotted with mighty fortresses that wouldn't easily fall. Caleb and Joshua's report was quite different--they believed that, God willing, they could conquer the Anakim and claim the land of Canaan for themselves--but the children of Israel sided with the other scouts. They wouldn't risk destruction. They would simply wait.

And wait they most certainly did. The children of Israel ended up wandering in the wilderness for the next forty years, waiting for that faithless generation to grow old and die.

Caleb and Joshua did grow old, but unlike their peers, they didn't die. The Lord preserved them so they could inhabit the land of Canaan and reap the rewards of their faithfulness. And even though Caleb was old, as he stood on the edge of the Promised Land, ready to assist in the final offensive against the mighty Anakim, he said, "Give me this mountain."

Give me this challenge.

Let me prove to myself and to my God how very much I want this.

As I read that story last night, I felt very much like Caleb, but on the edge of Publication. After all, I slugged it out in the query trenches for what felt like forty years. I wrote manuscript after manuscript after manuscript after manuscript. I survived. And yet, as I look back on where I've been, then at how far I have to go, it's just starting to dawn on me that the biggest battles are still ahead.

So I say with Caleb, "Give me this mountain!" If mine is not going to be one of those overnight success stories, so be it. I'll dig in and fight. I will not go gentle into that good night. I'll hang on. I'll climb.

The List of Qualities My Future Writing Career Will Have

When I was a teenager, I had this List of Qualities My Future Husband Will Have. I can’t remember if I ever wrote it down (I really, really hope I didn’t), but I can remember the entries well enough. Here's a representative sample:

1. He had to be tall, at least six feet (never mind that I’m five-three).

4. He had to have served a mission.

29. He couldn’t be, you know, stupid.

Now some of those entries weren't negotiable (no way was I going to spend eternity tethered to a meathead who couldn’t talk about really important things like the underlying axioms of microeconomics and, you know, college football), and some of them were (I really lucked out on the height requirement; Honey Bear is exactly eleven inches taller than I am), but they were all on the list, for better or for worse (pun intended).

The other day, I realized I’ve had another list brewing in my head for quite some time, the List of Qualities My Future Writing Career Will Have*, and since this one isn’t quite so embarrassing, I thought I’d share it with you.

The Really, Really Important Stuff

1. My books have to be published by reputable, well-respected publishers. “Reputable” and “well-respected” are kind of vague terms, I know, but I prefer them that way. And notice that I DIDN’T say my books have to be published by one of the Big Six. Pretty much every publisher that falls under that umbrella is reputable and well-respected, but there are plenty of reputable, well-respected publishers that don’t, and I would be perfectly happy--no, perfectly ecstatic--to be published by one of them.

2. My books have to appear in print, at least in the current market. Maybe in ten years, the whole market will be e-only, but for now, I can’t imagine feeling as if I’ve done what I set out to do if I can’t hold my books in my hands.

The Somewhat Important Stuff

1. I want to be able to walk into a bookstore and/or library and see my books on the shelf.

2. I want to hold a book signing or go on a school visit someday.

Now your list may look quite different; in fact, I’m pretty sure it will. No two writers are alike, so no two lists should look alike, either. And I’m sure my list will grow and change over time, too, but for now, it is what it is. (I’m actually really glad it’s kind of short.)

So what are some of the entries on your List of Qualities My Future Writing Career Will Have?

*This is, of course, assuming that I even have a future writing career, which, at the moment, is kind of a big assumption, but one you’ll have to grant me:)

The Hike

Adams Canyon is a popular hike in my hometown. The trailhead is only a few miles up the highway from my parents' house, so I've hiked it multiple times. Pretty much everyone in my hometown has hiked that canyon more than once.

Everyone, that is, except the moms.

See, Adams Canyon is also one of the most treacherous hikes I've ever been on. I'm pretty sure the only reason teenagers get to hike that canyon is because their moms have no idea just how dangerous it is. You cross a rocky creek bed several times, once on a rickety, old bridge that was rickety and old ten years ago, and you also scamper across a forty-five-degree cliff face that will dump you fifteen feet into that rocky creek bed if you lose your grip. Like I said, treacherous.

So why is it so popular? I'm sure some people hike that canyon for the thrill, but most of us hike it for the waterfall. After curving around a final cliff, the trail up Adams Canyon dead-ends in an unbroken forty-foot waterfall that you'd never expect to find five minutes from the burbs. It really is breathtaking and one of the best thoughtful spots I've ever found.

But here's the thing: About a quarter of a mile down the trail from that unbroken forty-foot waterfall is another much wimpier one. I suppose it still qualifies as a waterfall, but the drop is only around ten feet, and it slips and spills over a bunch of rocks and broken logs. As you admire this wimpier waterfall, you can look up the trail and actually see the final cliff around which the real waterfall waits.

But the first time I hiked Adams Canyon, I made the mistake of stopping at Waterfall Wimpy.

In my defense, I'd never hiked it before, so I didn't know what I should have been shooting for, and neither, apparently, did the other people I was with. We'd heard there was an awesome waterfall at the end of the trail and mistakenly assumed that Waterfall Wimpy was it. The trail widens out at the end (to be honest, it's not very well-defined to begin with), and we assumed that that final cliff was the end. That there was nothing more to see.

How wrong we were.

I'm not going to spell out the metaphor, mostly because I think this post will mean different things to different people, but as I drove past Adams Canyon the other day, I knew I had to blog about it. I'd be interested to hear what the metaphor means to you, though. And of course, if you're ever in Davis County, Utah, and want to hike a fairly treacherous but fairly awesome canyon, I'll happily give you directions:)

Thoughts for a Monday Morning

Querying and submitting aren't exactly alike--the biggest difference, of course, is that you have an agent in your corner when you're on submission, someone whose expertise you get to borrow, someone who believes in you--but they're enough alike that I've been reflecting on both experiences lately. It's nice not to be on the front lines anymore, but because I'm not, I have a lot more time to ponder. Here are a few of the thoughts I've had:

As it turns out, Twitter was right--the waiting never ends. No matter where we are on the path to publication, we will have to wait (and wait and wait and wait, in all likelihood). I've blogged about waiting before, but it seems to be one of those perpetual issues in this industry:) And the waiting doesn't get easier, which means there's no time like the present to learn how to master it. (I'm still learning, by the way...)

No matter where we are on the path to publication, we're always in the middle. A recent article by Dieter F. Uchtdorf totally changed my perspective on the path to publication. If we're always in the middle, then we'll never be too inexperienced--or even too seasoned--to take the next step. I especially liked how he wrapped things up:

"Being always in the middle means that the game is never over, hope is never lost, defeat is never final. For no matter where we are or what our circumstances, an eternity of beginnings and an eternity of endings stretch out before us."

How's that for boundless optimism? :)

Real success takes time. I heard an awesome gardening analogy yesterday that totally made me think of writing. The speaker mentioned that her dad was an expert gardener and had been from the time that she was a little girl. When she was young, her favorite things to grow were radishes because they matured so quickly. At twenty-one days from planting to harvest, they are the garden-plot equivalent of instant gratification.

Then there's the watermelon. You wait weeks to see the seedlings sprout, then baby the young plants along through the heat of summer, then hope and pray the fruit reaches maturity before the first frost hits. In other words, they're much more labor-intensive and require months and months of effort. But they also taste a heck of a lot better than radishes.

Now I don't know what your watermelon-like success looks like, and I'm certainly not saying that all of us should be shooting for the same thing. What I am saying is that, whatever our watermelon is, that's what we should be shooting for. I mean, who wants to settle for radishes when there are watermelons on the table?

And with that, I think I'll go and find a snack...

A Look Back, A Look Ahead

Honey Bear and I set some personal and family goals last night, and it got me thinking about my writing goals, both for this year and for last year. Here are the highlights.

Writing goal for 2010: Write at least five hours a week.

Pretty easy, right? I set this goal for several reasons. First, I didn’t want to put an artificial deadline on Bob, because artificial deadlines sometimes produce artificial results. Also, since I had a six-month-old baby in the house, I felt like I wasn’t writing as much as I wanted to--or needed to--to be able to finish Bob in a reasonable amount of time. At the same time, I knew I wouldn’t be able to devote serious energy to my writing until Lady settled into a better sleep routine.

I’m happy to report that, within a few months of setting that goal, I was easily smashing it. Lady grew up a little, so she started taking regular naps and going down for bed at a predictable time each night. And since Honey Bear was still doing the whole graduate school thing (in addition to holding down a full-time job), I had plenty of time to write while he was doing homework.

Writing goal #1 for 2011: Finish Bob’s revision by the first week in February.

You’ll notice that this first goal is an artificial deadline:) Happily, it’s an artificial deadline that’s neither too close nor too far-out. I may even finish ahead of schedule. More details in the weeks to come.

Writing goal #2 for 2011: Complete another manuscript by the end of the year.

Oh, look, another artificial deadline, and a trickier one at that. I still have a few ideas floating around somewhere in my head, but I haven’t committed serious brainpower to them yet, since I’ve been working on Bob’s revision. Still, I think this goal will be an attainable challenge. I’ve learned a little about pacing myself this past year, and I’m a much better self-editor now than I was a year ago (which means I can usually spot the problem areas in a manuscript more quickly). I’m excited to see where this goal takes me and how it turns out.

Okay, your turn. What goals, writing or otherwise, have you set for yourself this year, and how did last year’s goals turn out?

A Balancing Act

I’ve been feeling a little…restless lately. About my writing. And I think I’ve finally figured out what the problem is: I’m not doing enough of it.

When I started writing again, after college, I was pleasantly surprised to discover how much I (still) loved it. I lived for those few hours I had every day during my son’s naps, that brightly wrapped bundle of time that was just for writing. We didn’t have an internet connection at home back then--and I didn’t know much about writerly blogs and forums and websites, anyway--so every spare minute I had, I wrote. And it was glorious. It was writing for writing’s sake, and I loved it. Loved. It.

But then I finished that book and made my first foray into Queryland--and discovered an entire online universe dedicated to the creation and distribution of the written word. It sucked me right in, starting with my inbox: I wasted so much thought wondering/worrying about what might be going on in there that I had very little brain power left for plotting or creating new characters. Then agent blogs started commandeering not only my thought processes but my time. Then my own blog staked its claim. Before long, I was, well, not writing much. And even when I was--am--writing, I’m thinking more about my e-mail and Blogger accounts than I am about the words I’m putting up on the screen.

A lot of blogging writers come to this realization, I think, and we all have to find the balance that works best for us. The problem is, my balance is no longer working for me. So in an effort to adjust my equilibrium, I’m going on a writing extravaganza over the next week. For the next six or seven days, I’m going to take (almost) all of my internetting time and convert it to writing time.

My goal is to hit Bob’s 46,000-word mark, 5,000 more words than I have now, by the time I give you my next (work-in-) progress report. I’ve actually been meeting the goal I set for myself at the beginning of the year, which is great, but I want to up the stakes. I want all of this internet business to be secondary to my actual writing. I want to be more excited about writing than anything I might be doing online.

Which is not to say I don’t enjoy this whole blog thing and having all you lovely people around. Because I do. I really needed the connections and friendships I’ve made. And I’m still planning to post another agent interview at the end of this week. I just need to find a better balance. I’m sure you understand.

New Year's Evolution

With the start of a new year, I, like everybody else, have been thinking about goals. I don't like calling them resolutions, because resolutions seem so short-term and easy to ignore. So I'm calling them goals, because I am going to achieve them.

Now I obviously have goals in other areas of my life, but I'm sure you're only interested in my writing ones. And my writing goals are the most interesting, anyway, since I realized not long ago that I've been doing them all wrong.

In the past, my writing goal has always been to publish a book. It's not so bad as far as an ambition goes, I guess, but it's a pretty lousy goal, mostly because I have little control over whether I attain it. So this year I've been trying to come up with something completely within my power to achieve. But that, as it turns out, hasn't been so easy, either.

You've probably heard of Stephen Covey's SMART goals, which are specific, measurable, achievable, realistic, time-based goals. I'm not a huge fan of the acronym, since it's a little too cutesy for my tastes--and since achievable and realistic mean essentially the same thing--but I appreciate the sentiment. So with those ideas in mind, here's how my writing goal for the year evolved.

My biggest problem, obviously, had to do with achievability: I was trying to attain something that I didn't completely control. So I decided to set a goal this year that focused solely on the writing. My first thought was to make Bob perfect--that is, ready to query--by the end of the year, but I didn't like that idea, either, because as much as I agree that goals should be time-based, I already knew I didn't want to set an arbitrary deadline. I've done that in the past and discovered that my writing only suffers for it. I'm not the sort of person who needs outside motivation to get her work done, so I became more concerned with hitting the deadline than working toward what the deadline was supposed to be helping me achieve: slow, consistent effort that would (eventually) result in a finished, perfect manuscript. So deadlines were out.

But what about that idea of slow, consistent effort? My next thought was to set a weekly number of hours I wanted to spend writing, but I was worried that I'd have a hard time deciding what that number should be. My weeks can be so erratic (and for anyone with a two-year-old or six-month-old, I'm sure you know exactly what I mean), and I didn't want to set myself up for failure. When I voiced this concern to my husband, he suggested that I start with something low, some number that I'm already pretty certain I can do, and then increase it bit by bit until I'm stretching to reach my goal--but still mostly reaching it.

This seemed like a great idea. (Aren't spouses wonderful things?) So here it is, my writing goal for 2010: I will write for at least five hours every week, roughly one hour every weekday, no matter how, no matter what.

Now I know what you're thinking: Five hours every week? That's it? And two years ago, when my two-year-old was six months old and sleeping like a sloth, I would have thought the same thing. But I'm starting low and testing it, and then I'll have to see where it goes. It'll be a grand adventure. And somewhere along the way, I'm hoping to declare Bob complete.

So what are your writing goals for the new year, and how do you plan to achieve them? And if you have any advice for me, I'd love to hear it.