I’ve never liked those year-that-was lists that are everywhere right now. I need my closure as much as anybody, but it feels kind of depressing, with the bright star of a new year just about to rise, to peer back at disaster, destruction, death and devilment. I mull over these things daily, all year long, and I really don’t need the media piling it all up in one big, glossy, undigestible heap, thank you.
Instead, as the countdown for 2012 begins, I want to think about what might be. What I’m wishing all my friends, writers and non, is discovery. Of something–or one–totally new, or of the new within the familiar. Happy accidents, sudden insights, sneaky surprises.
And for those of us who can’t help but look back and rue mistakes (and of course this includes me, all protests to the contrary), I wish the kind of genius James Joyce celebrates in Ulysses: “A man of genius makes no mistakes. His errors are volitional and are the portals of discovery.”
Happy New Year!