It's the age-old story of love and hate and checklists.

I used to live and die by the agendas they provided us in grade school. Perhaps you remember those I mean. The size of a notebook, coil-bound, covers holographic for some reason. A box for each day of the school week, split into boxes for each subject in which I wrote down the numbers of math problems, the chapters of books, the permission slips I needed signed. About halfway through the school year, I memorized the assignments instead of writing them down because I’m a masochist by nature, clearly.

Agendas were not a bad idea, especially for a preteen trying to juggle the demands of 8 different courses. Checkmarks meant a breath of relief, one less piece of chaotic information cluttering an already chaotic mind. So I bought my own planners in college, then continued to do so in the supposedly competent adulthood that followed. Still not a bad idea. Trying to remember due dates on too many bills and plans with friends. All good, all smart, all helpful.

Until they’re not.

Today, I build bullet journals. And yearly goal lists, complete with blocks to color in. Great for building habits. Someday, I might write my strategies for why these sorts of things tend to work for me, provide helpful tips on how to build your own. But this blog is not intended to be an instructional manual. Maybe someday. Today, however, I want to tell you when this doesn’t work. For me. Maybe for you too.

I want you to know you’re not alone if checklists feel like a black hole sucking your soul out through your throat, burning in the surface of your skin, altogether a creature that makes you a failure rather than a human.

All a bit brutal, I understand. But so are some of the thoughts occupying the inside of my head.

Perhaps I should show rather than tell, as the age-old writing advice goes. Anecdotes rather than obscure words that fail to paint a picture.

At the beginning of the year 2021, we were still in the midst of a pandemic. The whole world is tired, and lonely, and drowning. Surviving, maybe, if we’re lucky. So naturally, I created a 7 item goal list.

And yes, this was the kind version of me to myself.

The list included savings goals, goals to workout more and drink water everyday. Good, healthy things. Read 72 books. Okay, perhaps not fully normal things. But there is one I didn’t make. Won’t make: write 5 novel drafts. One goal out of seven that I did not achieve.

If I think about that too long, my lungs constrict.

Before you say anything, I realize this is not a normal reaction. I can’t say that I know what the “normal” reaction would be either. Perhaps not setting such an absurd goal, though I have written as many as 8 novel drafts in a single year before. 5 drafts of one book, 2 of another, 1 of a third. Then in 2021, I wrote:

• 1 full novel draft

• 25K of a second novel draft (unfinished and likely abandoned)

• 51K of a third novel draft (in progress)

• An outline for a fourth novel draft (novel itself not started)

• A bunch of poetry

• This blog
  

And that voice, that single checklist item screams FAILURE. Sinks into my very bones, a cold poison flooding into my veins and rushing for my heart. Because there is a single checklist item that did not get checked.

I have a love/hate relationship with checklists. I maintain a bullet journal. I use colorful pens to fill in every goal I achieve. I even maintain a checklist for the books I want to read, shows and movies I want to stream, my recreation included alongside my assignments. The rush of serotonin from checking an item off a to-do list is unmatched. And I cannot deny how much I get done when that rush of serotonin is on the line. I’ve read 101/72 books this year, worked out twice as much as my goal arranged.

Then there is this single failure.

I think my brain is still fixated on my preteen understanding of the agendas they handed us on the first day of school in which we wrote down our homework assignments. A failure is a grade falling, a teacher’s disappointment, and shame, always shame bigger than even myself. I once forgot a homework assignment in my locker and I still carry that shame inside me, all the way back from sixth grade through to now.

Yes, we can certainly talk about my unhealthy coping mechanisms later. But therapy’s expensive so we’re going to work on writing right now instead.

Which brings me back to the to-do list. What’s the solution when you are filled with shame because you missed out on a goal you set for yourself almost 365 days ago? Spoiler alert: I don’t have a big solution for you. In case it’s not clear, I’m still struggling through this, or else I wouldn’t be writing about the topic in the first place. No matter what, this shame will still live inside me. I will think I should have worked harder, planned my time better, prioritized my time and my goal.

But you know what? I am not Cassandra; I am no creature of prophecy. I do not know what a single year will bring or what burdens I may have to bear. Sometimes, that uncertainty comes down to a single day or an hour. I start a phone call talking about lunch plans and end it by learning my grandmother is in the hospital. Life cannot be planned for.

So what do you do in a society that trains you to feel shame for a failure of planning? You reject the shame. You listen to your body and trust that you know what you need. Yes, you might want to complete a goal but have you seen the year 2021? I am tired.

I am so tired.

Sometimes, I need to open another book and escape. Sometimes, I need to sleep longer than usual. Sometimes, I need to race to another boxing session to throttle an inanimate object with my rage and my grief over all this lost time and lost control. And I need to let go of a goal a past version of me created.

I am not a failure for changing my priorities on the fly. I am an adaptable creature. So forgive yourself for those things that need not be forgiven. You are not a failure for listening to yourself and changing your plans. As humans, we have created so many machines by which we now live. But remember there are soaring mountains and fresh breaths of air. And you are so much more than whatever plans you have made.

I read over 100 books this year so I guess I should offer up some recommendations…

Reading is sort of my “thing,” second only to writing. But can you really have one without the other? Most years, I read somewhere between 45 and 54 books, which is nothing to sneeze at. In 2020, with so much additional time what with the pandemic, I read over 70, which was incredible!

And then, starting the draft of this post at the end of November 2021, I just finished book 101. Which is…just…what.

So I figure, as long as I’m reading so much, the least I can do is curate a list of my best new reads from 2021. I am here to filter books for the more reluctant/time-constrained readers! (Also, audiobooks count as reading. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.)

The books below are an alphabetical order by author last name. I’ve also included the genre, so you have the tools you need to figure out which might be for you. If you are interested in the full list of all books I read in 2021, you can look at it here.

1. An Unnecessary Woman by Rabin Alamedine (Adult Literary Fiction)

Ask anyone: I don’t read literary fiction. I might pick up one that fits that label once a year at most. High school assigned reading ruined me for it, and I’m generally trying to make up for lost time by reading tons of YA (plus, that’s the genre I write so it makes sense). But I bought this book up sometime in 2019, I believe, specifically to learn more about Lebanon. I was writing a character of Lebanese descent so I looked up books by Lebanese authors.

This book is amazing in a way I didn’t expect. It is absolutely literary fiction: very self-reflective, quiet and voice-y. And I adore the voice in this story. If you like voice-y novels, this one is for you.

2. The Good Girls by Claire Eliza Bartlett (YA Mystery)

I picked this one up because a literary agent I follow on Twitter raved about it, which makes sense since she represents the author. I love a good mystery, so why not? This book also features multiple points-of-view, which I always love to read, since I want to get stronger at writing those sorts of stories myself.

I love this one because it’s the sort of story that makes you think you’ve got the whole thing figured out and then unravels in the most unexpected way. If you’re looking for a new mystery, this one is good.

3. Humankind: A Hopeful History by Rutger Bregman (Nonfiction)

When your favorite author recommends a book, you listen. And Maggie Stiefvater recommended this one when I was already reading a ton of other nonfiction, so it slotted in quite nicely. I strongly recommend this book to anyone overwhelmed by the current news cycle, by so many sad stories and so much darkness. Using well-researched statistics, Bregman walks the reader through why humankind is better off than it seems. He doesn’t dismiss darkness, but he does make an effort to bring the light to…well…light.

4. Emotional Agility by Susan David (Nonfiction)

I spent a good amount of time this year reading books about leadership and skills to improve career skills. I would say this one was probably my favorite among them.

5. Watch Over Me by Nina LaCour (YA Magical Realism)

It takes a special kind of writer to write magical realism, to bridge the gap between reality and a world of magic, to make it seem like that gap is nothing more than a breath. This book feels a bit like really long form poetry. It’s the sort of book you start and don’t put down until you’re done.

6. If These Wings Could Fly by Kyrie McCauley (YA Magical Realism)

Trigger Warning: Domestic abuse

This book covers heavy topics. Heavy, heavy topics. But it discusses them in such a realistic way, talking about all the complex emotions involved in a situation of domestic abuse. Also extremely thoughtful about the influences of the community in which it occurs. Dark and light, magical and real.

7. All Along You Were Blooming by Morgan Harper Nichols (Poetry)

While I say this book is poetry, note that it took me and three Barnes and Noble employees to find the book in their store because it was shelved in inspirational! Which was rather hilarious, us all running different directions.

If you haven’t already heard of Morgan Harper Nichols, you should. She has a gorgeous line of art at Target, her pieces grace the covers of planners and notebooks and more, and then there is this book that is a combination of writing and artwork. I personally have two pieces of her work in my home as art so…I’m kinda a huge fan.

8. Mediocre: The Dangerous Legacy of White Male America by Ijeoma Oluo (Nonfiction)

This book is INCREDIBLE. If I had to choose a single book that was my favorite this year, this might very well be it. Do you ever read a nonfiction book you can’t put down? This is the one for me. I adore Oluo’s writing in general. She considers so many nuances in her writings, and I am desperate just to re-read this one.

I also would recommend So You Want to Talk About Race which is also phenomenal. But I forced myself only to include one book per author on this list so…Mediocre was the winner. But read both. Honestly, just read Ijeoma Oluo. She has such an awesome voice in her writing.

9. Weapons of Math Destruction by Cathy O’Neil (Nonfiction)

At one point this past year, I suddenly started reading about big data which was…surprising. It’s a buzz word I hear all the time, especially since I have a day job in IT. But this book is phenomenal. The subtitle for this book says it all: How Big Data Increases Inequality and Threatens Democracy. I mean…wow.

I would also recommend Everybody Lies by Seth Stephens-Davidowitz. His view on big data is somewhat different and I think reading the two books together offer some excellent nuance so you can reach your own conclusions.

10. The Girls I’ve Been by Tess Sharpe (YA Thriller)

Tess Sharpe is a very good writer. I read Far From You years ago, and it was incredibly compelling. But also very different from this one. I read this one on my e-reader in the driveway of my Grandma’s home while waiting for my dad to need help rebuilding the stairs to her front porch. Which was a challenge because this is not a book you want to put down. It’s a thriller and it’s incredibly well-crafted and unusual.

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The year isn’t over yet, and I am certainly still reading! Like I said, it’s kind of what I do. I hope if it’s something you want to do more of, this book helps you find something that lights up the spark in your eyes. And if not, I’m always happy to recommend others! Just keep reading, keep being open to new ideas. Read things you agree with and things you sometimes don’t. Explore new worlds and settle into old ones.

Trust me: there’s plenty out there and always room for more.

For some reason, in the age of TikTok and vlogging, I want to write a blog.

I guess now that I’ve shared some of my writing, I should probably talk about why I’m bothering in the first place.

As I start on this strange experiment, I ask myself why I begin at all. Why do I write a blog and not just a journal? I haven’t had a desire to maintain a diary since middle school and even back then, I was an intermittent writer at best, a forgetful writer in reality. Which makes the question a fair one. The answer?

Well…IDK.

Even that’s not entirely true. But a world wishes for simple answers. A single bite with all the nuances observed. Sum up your point of view in under 300 hundred characters or a video no longer than a minute. Capture your sentiment in a single quote, give me your elevator pitch. And I do understand why, in a busy world filled with billions, we shrink ourselves down into distinct genres. Otherwise, we may be deemed too complicated, too time-consuming. Which leads me to the short answer of: I don’t know why I am writing a blog.

However, the short answer is not the true one.

The truth is an amalgamation. I think of Bob Ross, layering paint to create a scene out of shapes. A single color does not make a picture. It’s like asking a writer why they want to be a writer.

Because my heart overflows and my head is occupied by too many voices and so I turn the tap and release them in a slow, steady stream to fill the cup of someone else.

I’m a novelist. I love to write long form. Please don’t ask me to write a book under 50,000 words because I will fail. I am not concise. I wish I was. But I am a creature built out of the mistakes that I’ve made and still trying to stumble my way into an answer.

Does that answer the question? Not at all, not really. Which, I suppose, is part of the problem.

We ask ourselves why we choose our careers, our spouses, the route to a coffee shop, and all of those choices have consequences, though the choices themselves don’t always have clear cause. Because the consequences stack and stack and stack and lead us to new choices.

I think about how I ended up working in Quality Assurance in IT. I went to college as a Public Relations major, a choice I quickly fled. Ended up in Computer Information Systems, thinking I would develop strings of code and make sense of how the digital world worked. Learned I hated doing that. Trained to be a business analyst instead, getting hired to do just that, only to fall into the world of IT testing and being fascinated by solving its puzzles.

Does that answer the question? No, I’m dancing around the answer. I know, I know.

I am writing a blog because these thoughts were already in my head. I search this world, particularly in this age of a pandemic, looking for reason, looking for sense, looking for the how-to guide for life (I have the time to read it now!). But the how-to guide does not exist. Instead, all there is to look to is my own stumbling, unraveling the chaos in my head to form it into a single string. Or perhaps one wrapped in a pattern, like the finger crochet I learned in middle school. Knotted and complicated.

This is me attempting to untangle. And why do I share it at all? The same reason I write novels:

to make you feel unalone.

Maybe you will find something in these words that captures the chaos in your skull or the aching in your chest. I don’t know. Or maybe this is just to make me feel unalone, like I can make this chaos mean something. I don’t know.

But I am here. And I want to be here. And I want to keep writing. And if you want to keep reading,

I am here.

Or maybe I am writing for no one at all. Maybe no one will find this page and I will be sending out my voice into the ether. That’s okay too. Because at the end of the day, I have too many thoughts in my head pounding against the inside of my skull and my heart is screaming and some days, I too am screaming because there’s too much too much too much. And writing makes me

quiet.