The year in brief:
Blah, Blah, Blah.
I was tempted to stop there. Greta Thunberg’s words say it all. Anything else is just description.
I could talk about another year of living in fear, and another year of being lied to, and a second pandemic year which is different from the first one because this time we’re not all in it together.
I could talk about how being lied to is actually worse than being frightened but how I’m tired of both, actually, and please can it stop. I could talk about anger, but I’m tired of being angry too.
Right now, in this in-between time between Christmas and New Year (and we have had so many in-between times), I don’t want to think about the outside world. I can’t bear to watch the “year in review” stuff on the telly, because I don’t want to think about The Year in Covid, or The Year in Politics. (And I never wanted to think about The Year in Sport.)
As for the personal stuff, I don’t even know what there is to say.
I could talk about the things I miss, but I did that last year.
I could talk about the books I read this year, because I didn’t have much else to do, but I’ve done that already.
I could talk about how having a goal got me through the year, even though I still haven’t attained it. I could talk about disappointment.
I’m not going to write about achievements.
A week before Christmas, I got an email with the subject line: “What have you achieved this year?” (and my name). I hit Unsubscribe, and when the survey came up asking why, I told them. After the year we’ve had – the two years we’ve had – some of us just can’t think in those terms. I’ve seen people I know on LinkedIn who do think in those terms, but I’m still in survival mode.
Yes, I am still on LinkedIn. And I’m still “networking”. But I miss the meetups or union meetings where you could have a laugh over a coffee or a beer. I miss seeing people who I don’t even like that much. I think if I have to go on Zoom again I might actually scream.
I don’t have any work goals apart from getting enough work to pay the bills; at least this year I managed that. I don’t have any plans apart from doing work and reading books, because plans feel impossible right now (I’ve had elective surgery cancelled twice). But I don’t think I want another year where all I do is work and reading books. I used to say I wanted a quiet life. I think that comes under “be careful what you wish for”.
It could be different. I read a blog post this week where someone had done a summary of their 2021. It wasn’t a humblebrag or anything like that, just a kind of diary. But it was the year of someone who doesn’t let a pandemic define their year. Who doesn’t let limitations limit their life. And who also does things that don’t make sense, because, I guess, life’s too short not to.
I write a diary anyway, so I didn’t think I needed to do a summary. But maybe I do. This is traditionally a time for looking back and looking forward and I’d been scared to look, but that blog post made do it.
OK, I didn’t have as much fun as I’d like this year, but it turns out I did actually do some things. I won’t call them Achievements. Just things. Some good, some not so good, some I’m still not sure, but they filled the year.
I came off anti-depressants, got longlisted for two writing competitions, had encouraging rejections from agents, heard nothing from other agents, earned enough money from the day job, got two new business clients, read a lot of books, had online arguments with people, had online arguments with businesses, had real-life arguments with random strangers, wondered whether I was a Bad Person, became a better cook, observed a funeral by video link, set up a direct debit to the RNLI just to spite certain people, watched some good telly, saw family, saw friends, joined a book group, joined a “chocolate tasting” group, got on a train twice, got vaccinated three times, wrote a 900-word blog post about male violence, fought with bureaucrats, did a Futurelearn course on punk in the 1970s, did a Day Crafting course, watched some Facebook gigs, did some autism advocacy stuff, accidentally used my Writers HQ “chin up motherfucker” mug at a church Zoom meeting, got a new record player, went to the seaside three times, nearly had a hip operation, made a new friend, stayed in love with my husband.
So it wasn’t all bad, after all. Maybe 2022 won’t be all bad, either. In spite of everything, I think I am still an optimist. I don’t feel one, like I don’t feel brave, but I think it’s there somewhere.
In January this year, I saw something on Facebook from a French page called Carpe Diem. It said: “Aucune résolution pour 2021. On va improviser.” (It’s a long time since my French A level, but it’s kind of obvious, so I won’t insult your intelligence by translating.)
Here’s to another year of improvisation.
Chin up.
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