I love our chipmunks, and I saw some cavorting in a Serviceberry bush yesterday evening as I was bird watching. I was so happy the cats were indoors, or in their small catio, and the birds were all safe in my yard.
Apparently the chipmunks were not safe, however, as this morning my husband saw Purrcy run through the living room with a chipmunk in his mouth. He yelled, “Where was the cat? He has a chipmunk!” as Purrcy ran upstairs past me and into my son’s room. My son’s room is not a neat and tidy place. There are many spots to hide, I realized, as I grabbed the cat with the small live mammal in his mouth, and he dropped it. The chippy disappeared under the desk as I hurriedly put the cat out on the porch, and joined Doug in my son’s room. His hands were on his hips and he was frowning, with no chippy in sight. It had to be there somewhere.
We discussed a trap. But I don’t have a chipmunk-sized live trap. I grabbed a couple of mixing bowls from the kitchen thinking we might capture him under one… and then, um, maybe slip a piece of cardboard under it, like capturing a house spider under a glass to free it outside…? Yeah, surely that would work. But the chippy was nowhere in sight.
So Doug let the cat back in the room to capture the chipmunk. Purrcy had it caught before I had time to think through how we might get the chippy out of his mouth without it escaping again. Put the mixing bowl over the cat? Purrcy zipped out of the room, chimpmunk hanging from his mouth, past us, downstairs, and crashed through the swinging catio door. We ran after him, closed the inner catio door, and then ran out our back door and around to the other side of the house to the catio with hopes of getting the cat to release the chippy. Even before I had the outer catio door unlatched Purrcy had eaten the chippy’s head off. We left him to devour the rest of the body.
I love our chipmunks. But this was definitely a survival of the fittest scenario. That chipmunk obliviously entered a small fenced area that was full of cat-predator smell. Of course it got eaten (after being traumatized by the cat and two humans). As Doug says, even a blind squirrel will eventually find a nut. Even a caged cat will eventually find some prey.
At least it wasn’t a bird loose in the house. This time, anyhow.
P.S. At the time of this writing, it’s 24 hours later and I still haven’t found any cat puke. That either means it’s not going to happen, or that Purrcy has already made his deposit in some dark and hidden location that I will only find when I step in it, barefoot, in the middle of the night.
In May, my local friend Cindy and I joined our Colorado friend Katy, and her friend Natalie, on our third “Katy Misadventure”. Katy plans these trips regularly, to fun and remote locations. If they involve horses, I try to say yes. If they involve river rafting, I say no. Rapids scare me.
Katy hauled her two horses to the remote N-Bar Ranch in New Mexico, while Cindy and I rented outfitter horses, otherwise known as “dude horses”. My horse was Poncho, a giant black part-draft horse. He stood about 17 hands high. That’s huge, especially given that my horse at home is short, technically a large pony. Suddenly I was having to get on a horse whose withers (top of shoulder) was about eye level on me, instead of chest level. And I had to lift a heavy old-style Western saddle up even higher than that to saddle him. Though I had worked on fitness and strength over the winter, the saddle weight-lifting still tested my limits. At first it took two of us to get the saddle set in the right spot on his back, but by the fifth day of riding, I could do it without help.
Mounting that giant horse was a challenge, but there was always a mounting block, tree stump, or a rock around to give me some extra inches. Still, I had to lift my leg much higher than normal to reach the stirrup, and a loud grunt was required to make that final stretch to swing up, over and into the saddle. But the view from that height was amazing!
Dismounting, on the other hand, was even more challenging than mounting, in part because I kept inadvertently putting Poncho in a slight downhill spot, so that I was making him even taller. If I stepped down with my left foot still in the stirrup, Western style, my leg got a bit torqued and my foot would get stuck sideways in the stirrup, a very vulnerable position. As I pushed the stirrup off my foot with my hand, I could hear every trainer I ever knew yelling, “Danger, Danger, get your foot out!!” So instead, I started dismounting English style, where you step your right leg over the horse, pause while hanging sideways on the saddle, kick your left foot out of the stirrup, then slide or hop down gracefully. But on that mountain of a horse, there was no grace. It was like shinnying backwards off a cliff, when you don’t know how far away the ground is, and you hope you can find enough tree branches and roots to hang onto as you go down to prevent an out-of-control slide to the bottom. I slid down slowly while holding the saddle, until my stretched toes finally, after what seemed like minutes, touched the ground. Poncho always stood nicely as I figured out how to climb down without getting tangled up, and without falling on my butt. I suspect he was laughing at my strange gymnastics. I figure it all counted as another kind of strength training.
A friend at home has been teaching me how to do body work on horses, where you move your fingers lightly along the horse’s body, then hold, waiting for a relaxation response by the horse. Each day in the paddock I would practice a little on Poncho, along his neck one day, shoulder one day, spine or hips another day. He reacted subtly, wiggling his lips or dropping his head. On the last day I worked more around his barrel and girth area and especially focused on some white scars caused by misfitting saddles over the years. He suddenly pawed dramatically with his giant front hooves—I jumped way back, not expecting that, and watched as he stretched down low, grunting, and bowing with his head down between his legs like a circus horse. In my limited experience I had never seen such a dramatic reaction, such a big release. I smiled at him and walked away. My job there was done.
We had no wifi or cell signal at the ranch, so I was in withdrawal from my cell phone addiction. Without that constant stimulus, my brain went down different paths. On one trail ride on a very windy day Poncho and I were happily riding along at the end of the line of horses. The wind was screaming—all you could hear was wind rushing past your ears. I started singing. I am not a singer, by any stretch of the word, yet I was dredging lyrics out of my memory. First singing softly, then belting the songs out: Joy to the World, Delta Dawn, Country Roads, Bohemian Rhapsody… the riders ahead of me couldn’t hear, or could barely hear, due to the wind. I swear Poncho loved it. Or maybe he loved that I relaxed up there, singing in a windstorm, in rhythm with his stride. He walked calmly along, even though we were a fair bit away from the other horses. I think that because I had no phone to distract me, my brain started searching the depths of memories, and landed on songs that I used to know. Another hint to step away from our phones and computers for a time.
On the last day of riding, we had a short group ride and then the guide and I rode off on our own, straight up a hill and along a ridge. On the top we rode through pinyon pine and alligator juniper and as we circled further along the U-shaped ridge we saw live oak. We eventually came to a giant, gorgeous, beautiful old-growth alligator juniper. Right next to it was an ancient large gnarled live oak. We were in the grove of the grandmother trees. We named the area Alligator Ridge.
We dismounted and took a break at the grandmother grove. I had a drink of water from my water bottle, a reused plastic iced-tea bottle, and Poncho was very interested, bumping the bottle with his nose. I poured some water in my hand, but he indicated I wasn’t doing it right. I poured some into his lips. Still not right. Then he grabbed the neck of the bottle in his teeth, but at that point the bottle was empty.
When we got back to the ranch, I filled the water bottle again. I tried to pour it in his mouth; instead, he again took hold of the bottle with his teeth, tossing his head and chewing on the neck. He looked disappointed. I am certain he expected beer. Note to self: always pack extra beer for the horses.
Spokane Public Radio has a wonderful program for local poets to read their own and other’s poems each weekday morning. During the Get Lit Festival, they invited poets to read a single poem at the Central Library sound studio. Here is a link to the poem I read: “Mac pipes in the Storm”. Enjoy!
We’ve been without chickens for a couple years. Our last batch of older established chickens were slowly being picked off by something… an owl, a hawk, or maybe a prowling mammal. These were free range chickens, they had their own field, and we often forgot to close the hutch door at night. I don’t really begrudge the predators, they need to eat, too. When we got down to three chickens, I gave them to a friend.
We might have gone a long time without chickens, or forever, except for the price of eggs. And the potential for government or bird flu chaos. I know that home grown eggs are never cheaper than store bought eggs, even when eggs cost a lot. Partly because you must feed chickens for six to nine months before they start laying eggs. And you know that saying about cheap insignificant things being “chicken feed?” A bag of feed from the farm store actually costs a pretty penny. Plus there are other expensive inputs, like houses and chicken wire and feeders and grit and so on. Still, having some productive animals on the hobby farm seemed like a good idea this year.
Turns out, everyone else in Spokane county thought it was a good idea to get chickens this spring, too. Maybe there were fewer chicks available due to bird flu, or maybe everyone was naively hopeful that eggs would be cheaper if you grew them yourself. But when the chicks arrived at the feedstores, there were long lines, and they sold out quickly.
Plus, I’m a chicken snob. There are only a few breeds that I like. They must be calm, broody, and self-sufficient foragers. I don’t care what color eggs they lay, but I might want them to hatch some eggs in the future. A lot of chicken breeds are not broody (they don’t like to sit on nests or be good mothers). Of the chickens that I could find locally, the Speckled Sussex sounded like a good breed. A few weeks ago we got to the feedstore early on delivery day and finally managed to buy four very expensive Speckled Sussex chicks. Then one died. Life with chickens often involves death.
Finally, I found mixed run banties. Mixed run means the color, sex, or traits are a crap shoot. I love banties. They are tough little chickens, varied in color, and super-broody (we once had a little banty hen that hid and then hatched a nest of 15 eggs). They forage and eat bugs and are just busy little resourceful chickens. I bought three banties: a gold one (Goldie), a black one (Blackie), and a mottled one (Checkers). Just to keep up, we decided we should name the Speckled Sussexes, too. They became Speck 1, Speck 2, and Speck 3. We can’t tell them apart.
The older Specks were really kind of blah and boring. They simply ate and drank in the tub on our enclosed porch and napped under the heat lamp. They appeared kind of dumb. The banties, at a quarter of their size, were immediately scratching in the shavings and wandering around. They showed personality and cleverness. I divided the breeds at first, and Blackie was immediately pecking at the Specks through the wires. Blackie is probably a rooster.
After a few days I pulled out the divider in the rearing tub and wondered if the banties would be picked on by their larger cousins. Instead, the banties decided that their new roommates were perfect to run and hide underneath, between, or on top of. No space was too small for a banty to squeeze into. The chicks were going to be fine.
I’m looking forward to getting the chickies off the porch. They stink after a while. I have prepared the outdoor hutch, hung up a lamp, and added a run with a tarped roof. In this era of bird flu, it is recommended to keep wild birds and wild bird poop away from the domestic chickens. It will be a couple more weeks, though, before I can fully wean the little banties off the heat lamp. Then again, they are resourceful enough that they might just hunker underneath the Specks for warmth.
Speck 1, Speck 2, Speck 3, Blackie, Checkers, and Goldie (you can see her feet in the back) all enjoy their first moments in the chicken house. Or maybe they’re a little freaked out. But I’m enjoying their first moments in the chicken house…
I’ve always been a dog person first, a horse person second, and only in recent years have I really begun to appreciate cats. We have had many barn cats over the years, all lovely and friendly animals. The goal of barn cats is to keep the mouse population down, but we still have many mice. Right now, we have two extra special cats: Purrcy and Squeaky. Both simply arrived in our barn. First Squeaky moved in, then a couple years later Purrcy showed up. They could be cousins based on appearance; they are very similar striped gray male tabbies. But in personality, they couldn’t be more different. Squeaky is shy, reserved, anxious about anything new or strange. Purrcy is bold, curious, fearless.
Although they started as barn cats, they both gradually morphed into indoor/outdoor cats and I have long considered making them into indoor-only cats. Indoor cats live longer, and they don’t eat wild birds. In the United States, outdoor cats kill about 2.4 billion birds every year (American Bird Conservancy). I really like birds, and Purrcy, in particular, is a skilled bird hunter. In addition, this year, we have worries of bird flu, carried by, you guessed it, birds. As best as anyone can tell with this new virus, if cats get bird flu, they die. Fast. And I like my kitties!
I’ve been planning the indoor transition all winter, and bird migration season is upon us. I knew it would be a rough transition for my cats, so I thought I would soften the transition by building a cat-patio (catio). This includes putting a cat door into a window, and then basically building a large cage outside. I ordered an insulated cat door and my mom and I started the project. My husband got to help with the sawing because I have a fear of cutting my fingers off with power tools, but other than that it is better for our marriage if we avoid construction projects together.
We cut the window plywood, painted it, attached the cat door, and added a layer of half-inch foam on the inside for insulation. Then we moved to the outside project. We built the cage out of yard fence panels and temporarily tied everything together with orange baling twine. In theory, if this catio experiment worked, we would eventually replace the garish twine with more subtle zip ties. In practice, we’ll see if I ever get around to it.
I repurposed a plastic yard kid toy under the window to make a bench for the kitties to step out onto from the cat door. Once everything was in place we were ready for the grand experiment to begin. My husband took off for a planned fishing weekend, and I was alone with the animals. Would the cats actually use the catio?
The first evening, after dinner, I introduced Purrcy, the bold cat, to the catio. I held the cat door open, put some yummy, canned cat food outside on the bench—he looked, hesitated, then walked out on his own. Soon he was coming in and out without help.
Later in the evening, it was Squeaky’s turn. I took him to the stool by the cat door, opened the door, put more yummy food outside—and Squeaky braced with his paws and claws spread wide, quickly becoming an immovable object. No way was he going outside, and I needed three hands just to hold him there. An hour later I tried it again, and I managed to push him out into the darkness. He ignored the food and started yowling, at one point climbing a fence panel like a monkey, looking for a way out. He dropped down and stayed in the corner close to the house, clearly upset.
Several times during the evening I opened the cat door and tried to coax Squeaky back in; no response. Purrcy also went in and out several times, seemingly checking on his buddy. Squeaky just hunkered outside, insulted, refusing to move. I wasn’t worried, there was warm hay in the catio and I knew he could survive the night, being a barn cat and all. Finally, before bed, I grabbed a flashlight and went out to visually check on Squeaky. I stepped out the back door onto our screen porch, and there was Squeaky, happy in his usual basket. How did he escape? He surely couldn’t fit between the fence panels. And cats don’t dig.
Turns out, Squeaky was a digger. He found the only thawed dirt close to the house and dug under the fence panels like a gopher. He was not staying in that repulsive cage. I was amazed and considered renaming him Sneaky.
That night, I put the plastic cover over the cat door to prevent cat escapes out through the newly dug tunnel and left the cats in the house all night. I expected a long and loud night. Typically, one or two cats will spend at least half the night on the bed, and then jump on me, or meow to be fed or to be let outside. At 2:30 Squeaky meowed to go out. Instead of letting him outside, I just pushed him out of my bedroom, shut the door, and figured he would quit meowing in a short time, then find a quiet spot to sleep. You may be wondering at this point how Squeaky got his name. He has a very strange, squeaky, non-melodic meow. And if you ignore his request for food, or to be let outside, he gets louder. The squeaky meow becomes a yowl, as if he is being tortured. The first yowl session lasted an hour before he finally quit. There were two more yowl sessions during the night, shorter, but plenty long enough to wake me up. One cat, probably Purrcy, decided it was time to get me up and stood at the bedroom door scratching and reaching his paws under, and somehow clunking the door, as if he were knocking. Between the yowls and the knocking, my dog and I barely slept.
Finally, morning came. I got up, started coffee, and let the cats go outside. I needed a mental break. I looked around the kitchen. The foam insulation on the window plywood was shredded, and bits of foam littered the floor. One cat wanted out that way last night, probably Purrcy, and was frustrated that I had locked the cat-door. Purrcy liked his catio.
My mom arrived and we went to work to fix the failings of the catio. First, we replaced the shredded foam. Then we put double-sided sticky tape all over a piece of poster board, and used that to cover the foam insulation. We thought this would prevent cat scratching, and it would also catch bugs, and possibly any humans that leaned against it.
Then we moved outside, discussed options, and decided to put a floor in the catio. We used scrap wood to make our floor, and used a large rock to close up the tunnel. During all of this activity, Purrcy kept going in and out of the cat door, checking on our work. He claimed that catio as his own. Once the fixes passed Purrcy’s inspection, we were ready for the next transition day.
Once again, I brought the cats in the house and was determined not to let them out. That night I left the cat door open and available for use and went to bed expecting to be awakened. Squeaky slept most of the night on my bed, with only a few meowing interludes that were short and moderate in tone. Purrcy wandered around the house, and in and out of the catio. The night went surprisingly well. My dog and I slept!
The next morning the cat door looked fine, and nothing was shredded. This was going great! By the next evening, Squeaky had figured out how to use the catio door on his own. Piece of cake! The experiment was working.
My husband returned home from his fishing trip, and I explained that the cats should now be permanent house cats. At the first sign of meowing to go outside, my soft-hearted husband wanted to let them out on the screen porch. The porch is enclosed, but it has a dog door. He blocked the dog door with the large dog food container and let Squeaky out. Squeaky figured out that the lightly loaded container could be moved aside. He was out and back in the barn quicker than we could say Sneaky Squeaky. I knew he would come back; his food was in the house. Eventually he did return, and we placed a heavier obstacle in front of the dog door. Squeaky spent time in his favorite basket on the porch, and he seemed happier.
Since then, our nights have been quieter, and we are more confident that our kitties will complete the transition to full-time indoor cats. They spend more time on our laps, and we find that they need some play time with us to expend some energy. We have toys spread throughout the house. Purrcy still wakes me up by jumping on me at some point before dawn, but when I push him out of the bedroom and shut the door, he finds something else to do. As I write this, I can hear the redwing black birds trilling outside and I see the California quail happily wandering in our yard, safe from our bird-eating cats. And hopefully our cats will be safe from bird flu.
I’m excited to announce publication of my story in Chicken Soup for the Soul, Laughter’s Always the Best Medicine, 101 Feel Good Stories. My true story is about a family fiasco of roasting a pig in a pit. There are 100 more humorous stories by other authors in the book. We all need a good laugh right now.
The paperback book will hit bookstores on February 18. See more here: https://bit.ly/4gczg9A
Just for fun, I am offering a drawing for a free copy of the paperback book. All you have to do to enter is let me know in a message or a comment by February 27. You can comment on this blog, comment on my substack (@Michelleeames), comment on Facebook (Michelle Eames Writer) or send me a message thru email (michelle@michelleeames.com) or Messenger. The drawing will be held on February 28, 2025. I’m sorry that the drawing will be limited to the U.S. only, due to prohibitive international postage costs.
Speaking of money, I actually got paid for my story! It was a nice piece of change. Anyone can send in a story to Chicken Soup for the Soul. See their topics and guidelines here: https://www.chickensoup.com/story-submissions/possible-book-topics/. I’m sure I’ll send in more stories; making money is such a novel idea…
In honor of Black History Month, I’m sharing a short review of The Three Mothers, How the Mothers of Martin Luther King, Jr., Malcolm X, and James Baldwin Shaped a Nation, by Anna Malaika Tubbs.
I, like most Americans, knew about civil rights activists Martin Luther King, Jr., and Malcolm X. I needed a refresher on James Baldwin—he was a poet and writer that often addressed civil rights and human rights in his writing. I knew nothing about their mothers. As the author writes in her introduction: “The three women I speak of are Alberta King, Berdis Baldwin, and Louise Little— women who have been almost entirely ignored through history. … While the sons have been credited with the success of Black resistance, the progression of Black thought, and the survival of the Black community, the three mothers who birthed and reared them have been erased. This book fights that erasure.”
The author is right, I had never learned about, nor thought deeply about the mothers of these activists, or any activists for that matter. But obviously, the mothers rocked! They sacrificed to get their children an education. They supported their children in hard times. They taught their children to have strength in their convictions. Two of the moms outlived sons who died in violent deaths, and Berdis Baldwin also outlived James. My words give just the barest overview of the enormous challenges these moms and their children went through. I’ll just say that the book was well-written, well-researched, and I learned a lot about struggles in eras that had only been lightly touched on in my history classes.
I recommend this book. It took me a long time to read, not because it wasn’t good, but because as I often do with serious non-fiction, I read a chapter, then mull it over for a while. This book offers plenty to think about and is a good refresher on the civil rights struggles of the past, as we witness new civil rights challenges today.
One thinks of sewing as a gentle craft. Lots of thought, precision, and fine hand-work goes into it. Cloth is lightweight, as is thread. Needles are small. The machine does all the work, so no real strength is needed.
But when it comes to sewing machines at my house, we are talking substantial mass. You see, I like the old vintage machines. The all-metal, or mostly metal ones. None of that wimpy aluminum here (although I hear that a few lightweight vintage machines do exist). I mean machines made of steel. Or cast iron. Thick-walled tanks of machines. The kind of machine, that if you can’t get them working again, get new jobs as boat anchors.
Last year I went to several mending workshops put on by Spokane Zero Waste. I’m not a great sewer, but I’m a practical sewer. I can fix rips and holes. But at the workshops I borrowed a machine. I couldn’t figure out how to easily get my favorite blue behemoth machine from my car, across the parking lot, and into the mending rooms. I’m not as strong as I once was.
I noticed all the skilled and serious sewers brought their own machines: sleek, stylish, modern, and lightweight machines. From those skilled seamstress people I learned that there are ready-made sewing machine cases on wheels, with expanding handles, and numerous pockets for accessories and threads. Like rolling luggage, but squatty. I watched as the menders easily pulled their gear behind them in their brightly colored roller bags, and easily lifted their machines to the tables. I wanted one of those bags.
I looked locally and online for ready-made sewing machine roller-carriers, or even a piece of rolling luggage that might work. Then I measured my favorite blue beast of a vintage machine. In addition to being heavy, the machine in its wooden base is quite long. I would need an XXL size carrier. I finally ordered one of those wonderful bags and was happy the day it arrived. I was also a bit surprised at the sheer size of it… more the size of a camping icebox than the size of petite airline luggage. But I was ready. Have sewing machine (and bag), will travel.
A friend who quilts wanted to have a sewing gathering. A sort of play-date for crafty adults. I was in. I now had my travel bag. But first, I had to organize a project to work on–gather scissors, seam rippers, pins, cloth, everything I might need. I filled many of the pockets on my bag. Then I packed up my seventies-era machine to lift it into the roller bag. That went well, because it was a downward move from table to bag. I secured it with the inner Velcro straps, then, out of curiosity, tried to lift the bag. I can lift the beast machine by itself, but the roller bag was broader, awkward, and pushed my limits. It rolled very nicely, however. I rolled it out of my sewing room, into the hall, and stopped at the top of the stairs. Fourteen steps. Should I carry it down? Should I clunk it down a step at a time as if it were a washing machine on a hand-truck? I decided this was a job for super-husband. He carried the awkward bag down the stairs. I asked my husband how much he thought it weighed. He thought at most 30 pounds….? Really? I was sure it was 50. Once it was downstairs, I was able to maneuver it through the house, carefully down the three porch steps, and across the muddy lumpy yard to my car trunk.
My car has a big trunk. I grunted and lifted the roller bag up and in… feeling like I was pumping iron at the gymn…it sort-of fit, though I tipped it a bit to get the trunk closed. Perhaps I should have gone for the XL bag instead of the XXL.
But I got it done and drove off to join my friends for our sewing party. Maybe it wasn’t exactly a party, since it was too early in the day for alcohol… I got the case up her house steps by pulling it backward, using the hand-truck method, and wondering how long this bag was going to last with my rough treatment. I sewed, I watched, and I learned that quilters have cool tools and clever techniques. But they are also very meticulous and precise—not exactly my style. Nonetheless, I might be gathering some of those cool tools, not because I plan to become a quilter, but because I still have room in that XXL bag. I’m sure it won’t add any weight.
P.S. I finally weighed the great blue whale of a machine. By itself, without any extras like cloth and tools, it weighs 40 pounds. At least my husband wasn’t right in his guess, but then neither was I. We split the difference in our estimates. There must be a deeper meaning about life, marriage, and perceptions there somewhere… Anyhow, I think I will be able to work sewing-machine-weight-lifting into my winter fitness routine.
I don’t do New Years resolutions. It’s not that I don’t believe in improving myself, it’s more that I don’t like to follow rules and expectations just because everyone else is doing it. Just because it’s January first, doesn’t mean I must commit to an exercise program. Instead, I might commit to an exercise program in October. And finally get serious about it after Turkey Day, as I did this past year. For me, resolutions are similar to spring cleaning. Must I do it because everyone else is doing it? No. Spring is for outside work. But I often do some serious cleaning and sorting in the Fall or Winter, when I’m spending more time inside and noticing the clutter. It’s an opportunistic kind of cleaning, room by room as I feel like it. If I feel like it. I have a high tolerance for clutter. Eventually, though, the dirt and disarray gets to me, and I jump in for a serious clean. Eventually, I get things done on my own time.
Nonetheless, I often revisit my writing goals and expectations in January. I sometimes keep the goals in my head and I sometimes write them down. But I don’t call them resolutions. They are more of a plan for the year. My writing goals include general intentions, and then those are broken down into specific attainable steps. The general goals can be vague, and by themselves overwhelming, for example, “Publish a new book”. But if I break the goal down into small do-able steps, I can make progress toward the end goal.
The other difference, to me, between resolutions and goals is that I can change my goals and steps regularly, when needed. I revisit them as the year proceeds, as I get new information, new ideas, or new plans. These plans become to-do lists to reach the final result. Even when I haven’t formally called them yearly goals, I am constantly making and revising to-do lists for my writing progress.
Given all that, here is my first draft of my writing goals and steps for 2025:
Goal 1: Publish my new book of prose and poetry across Washington (I have a solid draft already).
Steps to get there:
Continue to research appropriate publishers and contests.
List the potential publishers on a matrix (I love matrices) to track submission information, dates sent, expected reply dates, and results.
Follow online guidelines to send submissions to the publishers and wait for response.
If no positive responses by about September, reconsider the plan.
Goal 2: Write more stuff.
Steps to get there:
Either through prompts, or on my own, do new writing several times a week, for at least an hour.
Continue blogging, about twice a month.
Continue my Substack newsletter, about once a month. Continue newsletter for one year, then revisit whether it is still enjoyable, and useful to connect with readers.
Think about a third book, probably a humor book about hobby farming.
Explore other forms of writing, maybe short stories.
Goal 3: Read more stuff.
Steps to get there:
Waste less time on social media, read more books.
Last year I focused on poetry, this year focus on humor, satire, short stories.
Do I have any Mark Twain books? Find some and read them. (Hey, I bet those are in public domain now, and I can find them free online!)
I was going to close this blog out with a final paragraph about the need to regularly revisit, revise, and revamp our goals, but it sounded, well… preachy. You don’t need me to tell you what to do. Instead, I’ll end with a quote by Mark Twain:
“Writing is easy. All you have to do is cross out the wrong words.”
Michelle Eames 