Last night a friend and I sat in my living room, drank wine and planned our lives. Or not. Perhaps we unplanned them. She has recently become an unscheduled woman. Other than work, she has stopped filling her calendar with large projects, things to do, places to be and suggested I do the same.

I had about six weeks of non-stop madness from January into February, that then continued into March. Things have slowed down recently, but I found myself staring a few major projects down. A novel. A non-fiction book proposal. A literary festival. A grant. Another year on the board. Another year as the webmaster. Another year as a blogger. Another, another, another. Day after day, day after day, day after day.

Today I made a calendar of the next year in my moleskin and what it comes down to is there is nothing really there. I have projects, but little is set in stone by date. I added one big date to the calendar. July 15. That is the day I want to have written a first draft of my novel.

I have written things that should be written in pencil in pen, that is how much I want them to happen. Things I wrote in pen that aren’t certain. ROI120 in Jerusalem. I don’t even want to admit how much I want to return this year, because then I’ll have to admit how crushed I’ll be if I don’t. Instead, I just put it on my calendar. I also wrote the July 15 date for my first draft of Accidentally Jewish.

Anything else I should write down in ink for the year?

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