You might know that I’m a massive fan of lists (I even wrote a book about them). And what more inviting, intriguing, potentially powerful list can you get than a list of new year’s resolutions?
I love this one, made by folk singer Woodie Guthrie on January 1st 1943. His New Year’s Rulin’s include things like:
wash teeth, if any
eat good - fruit, vegetables, milk
change socks
These are the kind of things I can get onboard with – they’re achievable, small yet important. But the more definitive, ambitious kind of resolutions fill me with a strange cold dread. One year, my husband and I read a book called Your Best Year Yet. We spent that New Year’s Eve making vision boards and setting ourselves goals, and it felt great. Some of the things we did actually achieve. The rest feel, well, silly I suppose, looking back with the knowledge of what would come.
So, I don’t make resolutions that I’ll probably never keep and that would mean I start the year doomed to failure. I do make lists though, and have done with my children since they were old enough to hold a pen. Around New Year’s Eve we sit down and list three things we’re grateful for from the past year, three things we want to achieve or do in the coming year, and three things we’d like to invite into our lives. Then we put them in a box and mostly forget about them. Often we do the things, and often we don’t. It’s the ritual that feels important.
What I love most is looking back over their past wishes – often Lego-based or aspirations about playing for Liverpool FC – and thinking about all the dreams we’ve contained in this little box.
Do you make resolutions? And if so, how do you feel about them as the year progresses?
It feels hard to be hopeful as this year turns, given the state of the world and the climate crisis. And yet there’s a dynamism to this time of year that we can harness. We can do better. We can make things better, in our small ways.
When all feels bleak I turn to Rebecca Solnit’s words of wisdom:
Hope is not a lottery ticket you can sit on the sofa and clutch, feeling lucky. It is an axe you break down doors with in an emergency. Hope should shove you out the door, because it will take everything you have to steer the future away from endless war, from the annihilation of the earth's treasures and the grinding down of the poor and marginal... To hope is to give yourself to the future - and that commitment to the future is what makes the present inhabitable.
Here’s to holding onto hope.
Writing residencies
We spent a few days in France at the cottage between Christmas and New Year. We had rough crossings both ways but it was worth every crashing wave and stomach-lurching roll.
It’s nearly finished (as much as any old place is ever really ‘finished’), and I’ve decided to rent it out occasionally as I can’t get over there as much now I’m working full time. To start with, I want to offer it as a writing residency for writers who want to spend a chunk of time working on their books or research, or just enjoying some peace and restorative, creative rest.
It will be available from January 15th-February 29th at a price of either £150 per week or £500 per month, all inclusive. I had initially intended to offer it for free but I’ve run out of money and there’s still work I need to do, so it needs to pay its way. I’m hoping later in the year to run some retreats, so make sure you subscribe here to get updates, if that’s something you’d be interested in. There will be other residency slots later in the year too.
It’s on the Orne/ Mayenne border in Normandy and you’d probably need a car as there’s no shop in the village (though there are two bikes you can use).
If you’re interested, message me here or email lulah.ellender@gmail.com.
Here are some photos to give you an idea of what it’s like. There’s beds for 8 people but it’s heaven on your own too.
Seth Godin’s surprising advice on how to write a book
I recently came across this video in which marketing guru Seth Godin gives some rather unusual advice on how to write a book. He says that you need to go for a walk for one hour with someone you trust, explain the subject of your would-be book to them and record your explanation, then transcribe the recording and voilà, you’ve got a book.
It’s an interesting theory, and I guess it could work if you’re writing a didactic or factual book, but I can’t see how you’d make room for all the narrative nuance, deeper explorations of themes and intricate pacing that I think makes non-fiction such a joy to read.
What do you think? Sound plausible? I’m slightly tempted - maybe we should give it a try and see what happens?
If you’d rather take more time and go more in-depth into the art of writing memoir, there are still places on my next online Write Your Memoir course, starting 17th January.
We work with texts, writing prompts and different techniques to help you tell your story in the best way possible. It’s lots of fun too. Find out more and bag a place here.
In the meantime, thanks for reading and being part of this meandering newsletter’s world. I’m very grateful to have you here, and wish you a peaceful, gentle 2024.
Love,
Lulah x
Happy New Year! And many thanks for your column here on Substack. Always read it. Always helpful. Thank you! Still working on Topsy!
What a lovely cottage, the perfect place for some inspiration ✨