If you’ve been following me for any length of time, you’ll know I LOVE Leonie Dawson’s, My Shining Year Life and Business Goals Workbooks.
I’ve been buying them for five or six years, now. I’m almost superstitious about them.
Apart from the fun and colour and massive inspiration bombs I get from them, I love that Leonie asks all the right questions.
Her books force you to go deep. Get yer ya ya’s sorted.
To really think about what you want to achieve, what you have achieved and all the ways you can, well, lift your game as you move into the New Year.
There’s nothing ho-hum about these books.
Nothing dull or pedestrian.
This is goal setting infused with spirit, laughter, tenderness and intelligence.
I have my 2020 books sitting on my dressing table.
I’m awaiting that lull between Christmas and New Year when time pauses, the days are hushed and blurry, and I can sit quietly, eat rum balls and fill in my beloved workbooks.
It’s not a chore.
It’s a ritual.
There are candles and incense.
There’s soft music.
It’s an event infused with enchantment; a time when I honour myself as a devoted Creatrix, journey into my imagination and haul out endless plans, dreams and possibilities.
It’s delicious. I can’t imagine my year without it.
There’s this other thing.
The thing I need to fess up to.
The thing that’s been niggling me for YEARS.
I love goal setting.
I have HUGE resistance to goals.
I set goals.
But I resent goals.
They rankle me.
Often bore me.
I try to be nice to them.
Behind their backs you can often catch me sneering.
Is it the rebel in me, the maverick who wants to give the bird to any system that tries to box me in?
Am I Navy or Pirate when it comes to goals?
I was discussing this the other day with my lovely online friend Jessica Starr (please grab a copy of Maiden Mother Crone Other, her GORGEOUS book of poetry. I shared my 2019 Depth Year with Jessica— she graciously held space for many of us on Facebook.
Jessica has an even better analogy for this ‘goals really shit me’ conundrum.
She suggests it’s akin to the Plotters vs Pantsers debate in the world of creative writing.
The minute she said this the shoe dropped.
The clog dropped.
The Rossi Boots dropped.
I cannot believe I didn’t figure this out for myself! Where the fuck has my head been?
Me who was completely shackled by plotters at the start of her career.
Me who was so blindsided by plotters and all their rules, regulations, deadlines, treatments, plot points and friggin inciting incidents, I almost didn’t finish one single story let alone forge a career in creative writing.
Me who had to learn the hard way that you can pants and plot and, you know, do whatever you bloody well like, at the same time. It DOESN’T MATTER!
‘Own your creativity.’
I’m always saying this.
Honour your way of doing things.
Your way of getting things done.
Do what works for you.
And understand that what works for you might change, fluctuate, shapeshift.
Just like you.
Just keep turning up.
Stay in conversation with yourself.
Be a scamp, a pirate, a will-o’-the-wisp.
Be a Jeneral if you have to…
The main thing is to stay open.
Be kind but firm with yourself.
Relish your creativity and your life. Honour it for the astonishing, magical gift that it is.
Set some pretty goals, for sure. Some shining goals.
But maybe hold them lightly.
Plot AND pants your way through life. If that’s what works for YOU.
It’s your call.
Take courage in remembering that.
Blessed be, dear reader.