So here we are at the start of 2012 ... with about ten days short of a year to live - if you believe the Mayan prophecy of world destruction, that is. It'll all be over on 21st December, apparently. Still, that'll save on deciding where to spend Christmas, I suppose.
The trouble with world-ending prophecies is that they haven't - so far - been particularly accurate. But then only one has to be, I guess. I'm not sure if the end will come in quite such a 'Newton's Cradle' kind of way, but I like the picture. Maybe the apocalypse will come in an Armageddon fashion with a huge meteor strike, or perhaps an attack of giant, mutated Guinea Pigs.
We've also got the London summer Olympics to look forward to, so it'll certainly be a year to remember.
The question is: with all this ahead of us is it worth doing any actually writing? Is it worth doing anything at all? Will the millions of well-intended resolutions be redundant? Of course they won't.
Keep calm and carry on. What's the worst that can happen? I plan to finish the re-writes on Tiberius Found (my second test reader has finished now and given notes) and get it published using the Kindle Direct Publishing platform, as I intend to do with Oliver Drummond and the Four Horsemen. Oh dear, I seem to have come back around to the apocalypse. Never mind.