So out of 103 goals of varying complexity and importance, I accomplished 53 percent of them. That’s consistent with my performance for 2016 and 2017. As I don’t give myself any rewards for achieving them, I’m satisfied with the percentage. I set my list high, after all (rewards make a good incentive, but it’s hard to find something I wouldn’t do for myself or buy for myself anyway).
The bad news is that my creative output really fell way short of my aspirations. My top goal was to finish Southern Discomfort and submit it; didn’t happen. I wanted to finish four short stories; I didn’t manage any. I only occasionally pitched nonfiction pieces to any markets. I didn’t finish the Undead Sexist Cliches book.
The main reason was that my steady freelance gigs got in the way. Which is not a bad thing—I made well above my writing income goals for the year—but working on Leaf articles and Screen Rant took a lot of time. Particularly as the minimum Screen Rant listicle got longer and some of the topics got further away from my areas of expertise (like finding 17 secrets about the Nick TV show Victorious). Even though Screen Rants are fun and they gave me a chance to play with my writing style, I gave up the gig in the summer; it was just consuming too much of my writing week and Leaf, while duller, paid better.
I have learned from this. It’s the main reason I haven’t started submitting one nonfiction proposal in my files to publishers yet: I think it would just consume too much time and I’d like to do a lot more fiction in 2019.
I did self-publish the paperback edition of Atlas Shagged and Atoms for Peace, though, and I’m quite pleased with them. And I stuck to my goal of only checking email three times a day during work. And I finally got around to putting a PayPal donation link in the sidebar. Oh, and it occurs to me I don’t even bother setting any goals about staying as a full-time writer: barring disaster (which can’t be eliminated of course) it seems like I’m secure in that path.
In nonwriting goals, I kept the bird feeder filled, used sunscreen regularly when walking the dogs or bicycling and bicycled almost once every week (even discounting the weeks the weather didn’t permit it, I didn’t make the cut, but I’m doing better than last year). I called my elected officials off and on, and wrote them a couple of times, though I doubt it did much good (nor blogging about their pathetic performance). I traveled outside Durham several times, mostly with TYG (Mystacon was a solo act, on the other hand) and I got to see my brother and niece in October at my dad’s 90th birthday shindig.
Goals aside, it was a good year (not counting the frequent train wrecks emanating from President Shit-Gibbon). I snuggled with dogs and TYG, spent more social time than last year with friends, read a bunch of books and watched a lot of movies. I hung out more with the neighbors on our cul-de-sac and kept my weight to a reasonable level (not so much this past week, but that’s normal). I turned sixty and threw myself a birthday party (usually it’s just me and TYG). I enjoyed seeing my family (it’s not like they’re just a checkmark on a list) and catching up with my niece for the first time since she became an adult.
Next year I intend to keep having fun. But with more fiction. Details tomorrow.
Happy new year everyone.
#SFWApro. Cover by Gil Kane, all rights remain with current holder

Although forger Humphrey Bogart insists that WE’RE NO ANGELS (1955), he, safecracker Peter Ustinov and rape-murderer Aldo Ray miraculously help shopkeeper Leo G. Carroll, spouse Joan Bennett and daughter Gloria Talbot have a very merry Christmas despite the malevolent presence of covetous relative Basil Rathbone. A charmer, except for the unpleasant running gag of Ray barely restraining his desire to rape Talbot. 
Well, Southern Discomfort will not be wrapped up by midnight on the 31st. However, it will definitely be done next week (barring illness, exploding computer, etc.) so I can live with it. It would have been nicely symbolic though.
I got, as usual, assorted gift cards from various relatives. From TYG I got two movies on my Amazon list, The Girl on the Bridge (which I watched that afternoon) and a new release of Yellow Submarine. I also got some mason jars for the kitchen (they now hold honey and hot-chocolate mix), McVittie’s chocolate digestive biscuits (mmmm) and a trip to a local store to restock my tea jars. And an iTunes gift card, which went on Pat Benatar, Bye, Bye Birdie and part of a Mount Moriah album.

So does Nick Cardy.
And Gene Colan showing us the end of Earth.
I suppose I could just have skipped today but I’ve been blogging without missing a day for more than a year, so I wanted to keep it up.

Next, one by Bob Maguire showing that female spies apparently didn’t wear much clothing. Covers like this had me mesmerized as a teen with the hint of S-E-X.
Next a couple of weird ones by Leo and Diane Dillon.
And although it’s not a cover, I’ve been meaning to post this Stan Lee piece about bigotry since I saw it online after his passing.
#SFWApro. All rights to images remain with the current holder.
an alien planet, the last survivor journeys to Earth, ending up in Hell’s Kitchen. Meanwhile, a young teen named James-Michael sees his parents die in a very strange accident, his mother warning him of “the voices.” James-Michael, who seems about one step removed from a Vulcan emotionally, winds up in Hell’s Kitchen too. Hmm, coincidence?

