Soooo…I keep saying I’m going to write a New Year’s post. Because that’s what you do when you’re a blogger. Even an infrequent (as of last summer-ish, I was all scheduled and committed before) blogger like me. It’s just what you do. You tell the Internet about your resolutions or your “one word” or your writing goals for the coming year…

And usually, oh man, I am ALL over this. Because I loooove New Year’s. Love it. I get all whimsical and inspired and refreshed. I know some people turn a bit eye-roll-ish over that and that’s okay. I get it. I mean, it’s just a date on a calendar. (Albeit, a fresh, shiny one with pretty pics! Or in my case, a custom-designed one with pics of my niece…a Christmas gift from my sister which I adore.)

But I just can’t get logical or pragmatic enough to let go of that soul-stirring New Year’s feeling. And though I don’t do the “one word” thing (because, let’s face it: my brain is way too hop-scotchy to focus on one word for an entire year), I do tend to take great joy in looking at the year to come and making some goals and refining a few dreams and buying a new planner and even journaling. In fact, for the past few years, I’ve been diligent about setting aside time around New Year’s to get quiet and alone and think and pray and dream about the upcoming year.

This January, though, I’ve had trouble setting aside time…and when I have managed to sit down with my planner and calendar and journal and pretty Sharpies, I’ve been…well, skittish. Stalled. A bit on-edge.

It’s been weird.

But I was telling a few close writing buddies (shout out to my Grove sisters!) that I almost wonder if this is where God wants me this year. A little less scheduled. A little less goal-oriented. A little less tied to a color-coded calendar.

And yet…there’s that internal tug. To plan and plot my life. Because how will I find time to write books if I don’t schedule it? How will I make sure I’m getting enough sleep and exercising and eating well if I don’t write down my goals and come up with a fancy system to track them? How will I nurture my faith if I don’t pinpoint the needed seeds and water?

How will I do if I don’t first determine?

*****

Fiction writers have a language. We have a thousand acronyms. We have story terms that can sound hilarious. Like: “What’s the inciting incident in the hero’s life that leads to his noble quest?” Dude, are we talking story or a knight’s journey?

Well, some of the lingo you’ll hear authors toss about is “plotting” versus “pantsing.” Meaning, do we plot out our stories or write by the seat of our pants?

Three years ago I would’ve told you I’m a plotter to the core. Now, four novels, two novellas and an e-short in, I’d revise my answer to say I’m solidly in the middle. I like to know where I’m going, but I crave the magic of story and characters taking over, surprising me, saying and doing things that definitely weren’t in my plot chart.

But that need to plot is still there. I love having a plan. And it’s not even just a plan for the story itself, but for my career as a whole. I like to know what books I’m going to write in a year and how long they’ll take me and which characters are going to get their own stories in future books and…

Etc. Etc. Etc.

But just as I’ve felt wary about getting too organized with my usual New Year’s fervor, lately every time I’ve tried to plan my next story, I’ve had that check in my spirit…like a divine “pause” button or something. A whisper to wait.

Until last week. Something changed. Here’s the Facebook post I wrote about:

That wait…that struggle to silence the hyperactive plotter in me and just wait…totally worth it. I’m convinced.

*****

Well, I finally got that craved-for alone time yesterday. A few hours to pretend it was January 1 instead of January 10. Just me and the morning and the fireplace and God.

I thought about resolutions and the goals flitting about in my brain. The things I want to accomplish. The hopes I hope to move toward. Things to let go and things to grasp.

And the things, maybe, I think God might want from me.

Until…that same voice that somehow hushed into existence a wall when Melissa-the-plotter was convinced she needed to hurry up and get to work on her next story whispered again.

I don’t really want anything from you. I just want you.

[Time out! Did anyone else just think of that scene in Anne of Avonlea on the bridge? Where Anne tells Gilbert she doesn’t want diamond sunbursts or marble halls…she just wants him.]

And so there it is, a different path forward for 2016. One that doesn’t require resolutions or lists or Sharpies.

But instead, open eyes and a flexible heart.
A moldable, moveable spirit.
Guided by whispers and nudges.
Grounded in the present moment rather than governed by a schedule.

I’m not plotting 2016. But I’m not exactly pantsing it either. And there’s still a fair bit of determination.

It’s just that this year’s determination is a bit quieter. A little less defined. A little more patient.

And it’s excited. Because I know that just as God suddenly breathed a story to life in my mind last week after a season of waiting, if I’ll just give him me instead of my plans, he can breathe scene after surprising scene into the story of 2016, making it meaningful and rich and unexpected. 

And hopefully a hundred kinds of wonderful.

Happy (late) New Year!

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