Egads, it’s already December — which means that January and February of 2009 aren’t far behind. How did that happen? The years have begun to fly by. When I was younger it seemed they dragged on forever. Now, in a blink, I’ll be 31 and living out my fifth year in New York City.

And I STILL have that unshakable sense that I haven’t accomplished enough. That I’m going to be thirty one years old in two months and I don’t have enough to show for it. Rationally, I know that’s completely untrue. I’ve worked incredibly hard, I have a steady job (which is important with the economy in the state it is!), and said job is in a medium that I love. I have shifted apartments three times, getting better at the hunting and moving process each time. I have a good crop of friends that I see on a semi-regular basis, and a good crop of friends that I don’t see because they are scattered all over the country. It’s a solid, valid life!

But then there’s that annoying sense of “Well, I haven’t finished a novel yet.” I feel like that’s my huge, huge milestone, my benchmark for success. I mean, sure, maybe a significant other would be nice, but I want a book dammit! I see people finishing manuscripts right and left — people who only started writing a few years ago. I’ve been doing this since I was a kid, you’d think it would be the easiest thing I’ve ever done. How is picking up my entire life and moving it to New York City simpler than writing a full-length novel?

I’m a pretty good writer. I’m a pretty good storyteller. Reading and writing are more precious to me than food and air. Words have gotten me through some of the toughest times in my life. Why do they fail me when it comes to sustaining a story?

I think my biggest goal for the coming year is to finish something.

Before the months fly by and it’s suddenly 2010.