The strange and complicated pull of New Years Resolutions.

A tealight in a small brass candle holder with stars stamped out of it, in the dark.

Hi. It’s me. 👋

I have Covid. I’m writing to you from my sofa at 3:14am, surrounded in Kleenex. I look like a 100-year-old snapping turtle who wandered into a house in East Toronto in the middle of the night and popped a laptop open.

I’m awake and thinking about January, and the strange and tender pull towards of New Years Resolutions.

“Resolution”. Can we start there? Apparently it comes from the Latin resolvere, which means “to loosen, undo, settle." These days we mostly us the word “resolve” for interpersonal conflicts or tricky math problems. It seems odd to also want to resolve a year.

Tonight I have a theory though. I think it has to do with sadness.

I don’t know about you, but I often feel like time is breaking my heart. The way it takes away so much, and promises to take away all the rest.

Countless things I’ve loved — people, projects, dreams, dogs — aren’t moving into 2025 with me. And so much of what’s still here won’t make it to 2026.

And somehow, we still hold onto this urge to resolve. To make fresh plans. To imagine new versions of who we could be.

How unbelievably hopeful. How radical.

From my very cursory research on this (my eyeballs hurt) New Years Resolutions go a long way back. Ancient Babylonians were making them 4000 years ago, promises to the gods when they planted their crops. Later the Romans jumped in, making promises to Janus — the God of January.

In medieval times, knights would gather around a roasted peacock at this time of year, and lay their hands on it to recommit to chivalry before it was carved.

(Um, can we all pause here and just feel that?)

And yet, each time, we know it probably won’t work.

Research shows that around 9/10 resolutions fail, many within weeks. It’s so easy to get cynical about this. But can we push that back against that edge? Should we?

Cynicism is an exit door from hope. And as we as a collective crest into 2025, with authoritarian leaders, climbing temperatures and more trash than any planet could hope to process, we do not need less hope.

I hear the temptation to cynicism all the time when I talk to people about writing.

I already tried to finish a novel
I already tried to start a writing practice.
I already tried to get published.

This is probably true. But it has no bearing on the future. If good things always happened on the first try, then yes, let go after one attempt. But we all know that the big and important things in life take effort, patience, time, grace, luck and, yes, resolve.

Janus (the god of January that the Romans made their resolutions to) was said to inhabit doorways and arches. That’s what this day is — a door, an arch, a chance to move forward with something else.

Can we carry our failures and losses through these arches, and still make space to hope for something new to “loosen, undo, and settle into”? I want to.

There’s sadness here, yes yes yes. And still, here we are, moving into the future, with our capacity and our creativity intact.

So, tonight I’m going to put my hand on the peacock, and just… try.

Not because I know I’ll succeed (I probably won’t) but because I care about how I use my days on this beautiful earth, I want to make good things, and know I can do better.

Will you join me? Write me back. Tell me what you want to make this year. What matters most? What do you want to protect and uplift? I won’t hold you to it, but I will hold it with you.

It is almost time to head back to bed.

Clammy sheets and a snoring partner await me upstairs. But before I do, I’m going to be very vulnerable and tell you my resolutions.

I want to make a lot more time to read and write this year, and to follow my curiosity into the places it’s most hungry to go — loneliness, community, creative process, new ways of imagining business.

I want to write about those here, to you, but also in longer essays, and new platforms — podcasts, articles, events. I want to be open to invitations to write and talk about these things, to not shrink when they come.

I’m cringing, telling you this, but I don’t think we’re supposed to make resolutions alone. So thank you for being here with mine, and please send me yours. Let’s move into 2025 together, brave and hopeful, despite it all.

In it with you,

P.S. If a writing workshop might be part of your new year dreams, here’s what we’ve got cooking:

Workshops to help you write the truth

Are parts of your life aching for voice? These workshops will give you them a chance to speak. The Life Stories Workshop will give you the tools to write 6 fresh shorties about your life, and Brief Bursts will walk you through writing many short-short-short ones. Exploring our Racialized Identities is for anyone who identifies as BIPOC, and Fat Joy for anyone who identifies as fat.

Workshops to help you make stuff up

Fiction is a place to tell our stories in a different way — through our imaginations. The Novel Writing Toolkit is for people with ideas for novels, and no idea what to do with them, and Tiny Worlds is for folks who want to learn the craft of short fiction.

Workshops to help you kick start your voice

These workshops will let you explore a little bit of everything — poetry, voice, memoir, lists, rants and more. Begin Here is short, with zero homework (and an in-person option), Keep Your Pen Moving is longer and has a little more engagement between sessions.

Workshops to help you reconnect to your weird

Writing can be serious, yes. And it can also be a place to let loose and play. The Wordplay Workshop (in person in Toronto) is designed to help you dive into the silly joy of language. Flight Paths is dedicated to exploring poetic forms.

Workshops to help you just keep going

When you have a little bit of momentum and vision, it can be incredibly useful to tap into community and structure to keep it moving. Focus and Flow is dedicated to finding writing flow, and Imagine A Cabin is a full online weekend for folks who want to move something forward.

And a poem for today.

My favourite New Year’s poem ever, by the soulful and seemingly limitless Naomi Shihab Nye. Read it, or let me read it to you.