With a new year starting in less than 48 hours, an annual resolution lists seems important, and maybe more so than usual. My approach to goal setting diverges sharply from last year; each one hinges solely upon my actions.

Before listing specific action items, though, let me explain the rationale for this change, as the reasoning behind those points are actually more important than the goals themselves.

The departure traces back to a lesson about wrestling the universe: When trying to exert control that is not mine to own, while it may appear like my efforts affect the outcome—I might even believe, or delude myself briefly that my influence will out—when facing a superior force with that attitude, I will lose. On the surface, that rings a bit defeatist. Incredibly it’s the reverse, because the battle is actually me vs. myself to begin with.

Well, myself and the trolls. And again, I almost jump ahead of the point. It’s definition time.

By trolls I mean obstacles—real or imagined—that obstruct personal development. Each writer faces their own breed of the little nasties. By superior force I refer to the energy spent worrying about how someone might receive, or not receive my writing. That mentally created troll rates as my single biggest stumbling block since embarking on this journey. Approval—or rejection—of others is a greater force largely because I regarded it as such. Maybe it wasn’t ever a problem, yet I stressed until it became one. A troll feed; a troll nurtured; a troll grew fat and menacing thanks to my own hand. See ultimately, a troll is only a cretin in the way. They block the bridge, because that is their job. Perhaps something to do with unions, maybe. But answer the question and the troll shall let ye pass. Argue with the troll’s right to guard the bridge and ye shall both grow gray together.

Effective immediately, I will no longer aid, feed or comfort the enemy. In fact, I will no longer consider the troll an enemy. He’s only doing what he must. And I’m doing what I must, too.

Here are my answers for the trolls in 2007:

1) Enter twenty(20) fiction writing contests that pay cash prizes in excess of $300 and publication in a respected periodical, annual or magazine.

2) Pitch the novel to 40 agents/editors. Roughly 1.5 individuals in the business per week. Er, Roughly 1 individuals in the business every 6 working days. Or 1 agent per week, excluding summer break.

3) Launch guerrilla marketing campaign for the novel. The details of this plan must remain under wraps because it’s the only truly original idea I’ve ever had about hawking fiction. If it works, I’ll gladly disclose the details.

4) Finish a draft of The Confession before beginning another large writing project.

To all who read this site: I wish you all the best in 2007.

As an agency whose usefulness has long provided fire to its critics, the CIA is a more or less a mystery—an entity answerable only to people who have no interest publicizing its successes of failures. True, they have a web site, but that does not illuminate even the basic function of this covert organization. Maybe we’re all better off not knowing how the trains run on schedule, only that they do.

The Good Shepherd, a film loosely based on the career of James Angleton a counterintelligence operative, does not examine the efficacy of the CIA either. Nor does it glamorize the mission or work. This film is not about cloak dagger or spy games. Good Shepherd does paint a harrowing picture caused by a lifetime spent serving the agency. If the experiences of the character Edward Wilson are rooted even part in fact, his story is a tortured one, indeed.

It’s a long film, close to the three hour mark. It’s littered with moments of quality drama. There’s a rich narrative, though perhaps a bit dense given the non linear plot structure.

What works about Good Shepherd:

1. A very complicated set of characters and back story in an entertaining package.

2. Cast is top shelf all the way across. Every key actor performs well.

3. Direction. More films by Robert De Niro!

Areas of improvement:

1. Very Godfather II esque vibe. Perhaps a result of Francis Ford Coppola’s involvement, several scenes draft too far into that well for my taste.

2. Story arc. Two minor conflicts could have been expanded to major plot points, and buoyed the pace.

Verdict: Matinee, or DVD rental.

Good news, experts solved the mystery of the exploding toads. Hint: It’s nothing to do with explosives, or demonic people with too much time on their hands.

School is open with limited services, and only for two business days this week; that’s about how many employees are present on campus. A number of coworkers, believing I skipped out until classes started again—ah, how sweet generous vacation allowances are—left voice mail messages last week prefaced like this: “You’re probably in Jamaica, but if you are in, I have a problem with…”

But then, that’s my job. Those are the calls I get. Crazy tech guy calls…

A peer recommended an excellent book, The River Road by Karen Osborn, which I enjoyed a great deal. This novel stands as a fine example of effective dual voice narration. In all, four narrators show the story—and in first person. Initially thought such a device might interrupt the flow, and jar the reader loose from the story, but in this case it not only works, the additional voices make for a richer experience.

Tentatively titled the new—secondhand new anyway, since I began the piece in November 2005, then abandoned it in January 2006—manuscript The Confession. Referred to the piece as a Time for Dying here on occasion, though I’d be surprised if anyone delineates a connection between the entries without the above explanation.

In between setting the story aside and the prodigal return, the former governor of New Jersey published a book entitled, feign surprise, The Confession. Frankly, though I disagreed with much of his public service career, Mr. McGreevey selected a fetching name for his memoir. For the interim, I’ll stick with The Confession until someone holding a check endorsed to me says the title must go. Since my boss does not read the site, that conversation lays safely beyond the horizon. No one told my boss about the Internet, right?

Titles are more finishing touch bits, and nothing to stress about so early in a piece’s genesis. I only divulge this background because going forward I’ll refer to manuscript as The Confession. Also, I want to note a few details that will help flesh out the backstory.

Consistent with my intent, followed the “surrender the universe, finish the sentence” mantra when straying mentally. Besides making the writing sessions more productive and keeping me grounded in the moment, productivity increased. One metric that reflects progress is size. The piece grew from around 8,000 words in late November to nearly 25,000 heading into this last week of December. Keep in mind much of the effort straddled two major holidays, a complete meltdown server crisis at work, and a vacation. Not quite Stephen King output, but far beyond my normal rates for roughly twenty sessions.

Now the story itself might be dictating the pace; it could the mantra. Maybe opting for the laptop with no wireless network card made a difference. All I know is it’s been easier making tracks when my primary agenda is staying on point. Checking email or Googling some random fact does not finish a sentence. Downloading software or researching character names does not either. Only writing one does. And that’s what I’m worrying about: Finishing the sentence. Not all the sentences. Just the sentence.

The growing size marks another development. At just below 100 pages, The Confession now far exceeds the dimensions of a short story. And though it’s a bit light for a novella, and way premature to be considered a novel, if it runs on like this it could meet the criteria for something besides a “longish short story”.

Or it may declare its own end tomorrow.

UPDATE: Forgot earlier, but RE: things done differently this project versus the last, my reading allowance stands at one book a week, alternating between fiction and nonfiction. On a subconscious level, that might also help if for no other reason than to accustom the mind to the sight of long strings of interrelated sentences.

End of year happenings can excite as much as they can depress. Luckily the bleakness passed over my street—and it’d be great if that black cloud spared everyone I know, actually—it unloaded somewhere close, because I chatted with a few people drenched in hurt city. For many people the silly season catalyzes feelings on both extremes. I guess the downtime of holidays forces reflection, the sort most people don’t allow for normally. And maybe the year wasn’t all they wanted, or expected. The Wife said once that attendance at AA meetings swells in the last two weeks of December, through the first week of the new year. I believe her.

As a child this week of December was my favorite time—period. Making my case with the faux Santa in the Mall. Begging for the impossible gift from my parents. Calls to distant relatives, praying they didn’t send another ugly sweater. Oh, the buildup. Then, when I could take it no longer, I stormed down the steps at seven a.m. and found a mound of presents beneath the tree. Beautiful.

Now that I’m older and own cats who paw shiny flashing things, the season assumes a new dimension.

Happy Holidays!

Normal operations resume on Friday December 22, 2006.