I’m usually resolved at this time of year to do something. Get fit. Read more. Or better still, find that literary agent who shares my passion to tell my stories.

Don’t get me wrong. I plan to query agents in 2021. More fervently, if anything.

Otherwise, I’ve decided on a different approach. Rather than compile a list of goals I aspire to achieve, I’m going to strive instead to avoid those things I shouldn’t do.

So here are my New Year’s resolutions of different sort. My list of don’ts. I’m sharing in case others might find it useful. But I’m not so much preaching as confessing. These are things I expect to work on in the year ahead. Clearly, I’ve got a lot work to do.

Don’t whine. I mention this first because I’m most often guilty of the offense. Yet, who am I to complain in a world full of people who face more challenging difficulties? Especially in the midst of a pandemic. Moreover, I’ve finally come to the realization it makes more sense to just go ahead and try to fix problems than harp about fixing them.

Don’t try to impress. The people who impress me most are those who try the least to do so. They’re so good at what they do, it’s self-evident. No aggrandizement required. What’s more, they’re far too smart to believe they’re smarter than anyone else. That sounds paradoxical, but it’s not. Intelligent people know they can learn something from nearly every situation and nearly every person they encounter.

Don’t live in the past. This applies equally to failures and successes. Learn from mistakes, but don’t dwell on them. See them as the opportunities they are to improve and try, try again. Forgive not only yourself, but also others. When someone makes a mistake, respond with understanding rather than blame. What goes around really does come around. The next time you need help, who do you think is more likely to come to your rescue? The same goes for triumphs. While it’s easy to rest on laurels, don’t. The true measure of success isn’t one or two wins, however remarkable, but excellence sustained over time.

Don’t wait. It’s tempting to put off those tasks we deem important, yet not so important they require our immediate attention. It can wait a day. Right? But then another day passes. Then another. It’s far worse to defer our dreams. Whether it’s a short jaunt or long journey, the most important thing is to take that first step toward a desired destination. Just get started.

Don’t let fear hold you back. I’ve saved what I consider the best advice for last. Not only because it’s important at a time when it’s understandable to be fearful, but also because I’m particularly susceptible to this foible. The obstacles we build up in our minds are far more daunting than what we’re likely to actually experience. What we perceive as mountains really are more often molehills. The best way to overcome fears? Confront them and see them for what they usually are — unfounded.

Every new year — every new day, for that matter — affords another opportunity to try something different. More important, to make a difference.

What will you do, or not do, in 2021 to make a difference?

I’m haunted by the ghosts of Christmas. It’s an experience that’s delightful, not frightful. One of fond memories, grateful appreciation and optimistic expectation.

At the risk of plagiarizing even more, I imagine I’m like Ebenezer Scrooge, the protagonist of the famous Charles Dickens novella. Not the miserly recluse, mind you, but the benevolent extrovert made so by the spirits of the season.

Maybe I’m either hopelessly naive or naively hopeful, but I believe Christmas affects most people that way. They’re more giving, more sociable and more cheerful. We all could all use more of that, couldn’t we? Especially as an antidote to a ravaging pandemic and rancorous politics.

Even a brief stroll down memory lane evokes vivid recollections of Christmases past. 

I was 5, snuggled into bed on Christmas Eve and too excited to sleep. Suddenly, there was loud thump on the roof above my bedroom as if a heavy object landed there. A sleigh perhaps? I squeezed shut eyes as big as saucers, fearful even a furtive glimpse of Santa outside my window would send him away before he completed his delivery. While I’ll concede the possibility it wasn’t Santa, I remain convinced otherwise.

Childhood Christmas mornings brought joyous discoveries. I was as amazed as I was thrilled. It was … magic.

As a parent, I discovered even more thrilling moments in watching my two sons tear into gift-wrapped packages. 

I was spoiled. My children were too. But it wasn’t so much the material things I received or my sons received that made the experiences indelible. I can’t remember now some of the things I believed back then I needed so badly. Rather, they were moments when dreams came true. You never forget those.

Christmases present bring still more gifts. Chief among them cherished relationships with family and friends and time spent together.

If there’s a silver lining to the cloud of a pandemic, it’s that my two sons and remarkable daughter-in-law work remotely and have done so from my home. The result: an unprecedented opportunity to spend time with them. We’ve hiked, played disc golf and savored wine. I couldn’t ask for a better gift than that.

Who knows what Christmases yet to come will bring. I’m optimistic, though, even happier holidays await.

Presented with the grim possibilities of his future, Scrooge changed his ways to embody the spirit of Christmas. It’s a cautionary tale. Never underestimate the influence of Christmas or, for that matter, the power of a do-over.

In the meantime, I’ll steal a few more words from Dickens.

God bless us, every one.

As both a newspaper journalist and mystery novelist, I fight to write tight. I endeavor to reach a conclusion without using too many words to get there. I prefer lean, muscular prose to corpulent bloviation. 

Compared to some authors, though, I’m a profligate who squanders words the way a drunken sailor spends money.

Consider, for example, Theodor Geisel. Better known as Dr. Seuss, Geisel wrote and illustrated some 60 children’s books that sold a total of more than 600 million copies. More impressive, he did so with few tools at his disposal.

Challenged to write a compelling book using a short list of words deemed important for first-graders to recognize, Dr. Seuss produced “The Cat in the Hat.” He used only 236 different words. He was just warming up.

Bennett Cerf, co-founder of the Random House publishing firm, bet Dr. Seuss $50 he couldn’t write an entertaining children’s book using just 50 distinct words. The result was “Green Eggs and Ham.” Cerf never paid up, but the book sold more than 200 million copies.

I’m envious of those kinds of numbers, small and big. I share one thing in common with Dr. Seuss, though: I realize the benefits of limits. 

Newspaper journalists have only so many column inches on pages for their stories. Novelists enjoy more room to write, but also face limits that vary with genre. Novelists who use 150,000 words to build brave new worlds in science fiction might have to make do with half that for even the steamiest romances. Newspaper websites and electronic books afford additional space. But other limits remain, among them the time of readers. 

Less really can be more, however. Journalists present the most important information first. Novelists tell succinct stories. It’s a refining process — one beginning with a large quantity of raw material, but ending with a smaller amount of something pure and valuable.

No one will ever match Dr. Seuss for his ability to turn a few words and poetic meter into such endearing tales. Least of all me. I could not write it in a box. I could not write it with a fox.

But I’ll continue my fight to write it tight.

Nearly everyone has been asked that question — usually starting in elementary school, if not sooner. Nearly everyone asks that question of themselves — sometimes regardless of age or the stage of their careers. Although there are probably exceptions, I suspect the answers almost always change.

As a kid who grew up in the midst of the space race in the 1960s, I wanted to become an astronaut. Who didn’t? Subsequently inspired by what I read about Isaac Newton and Marie Curie, I wanted to become a scientist and make important discoveries. Those of a certain age will remember the chemistry sets that used to come in metal boxes. I got one for Christmas. And a microscope, too.

Then I discovered something completely different. I took a part-time job in high school covering sports for my hometown newspaper and found out how much I enjoyed writing and reporting. I pursued computer science in college, but switched to journalism at the beginning of my sophomore year and fared considerably better — academically, thank goodness, but also personally.

Although I’m now past 60 years old, my vocational aspirations remain pliable. Every bit as pliable, I suppose, as my definition of what constitutes growing up. I’m still in love with journalism. But I still wonder what I’m going to be when I grow up. 

Fighter pilot is probably no more a realistic goal at this point than lion tamer. Mountain climber sounds exciting, but also dangerous and, even more daunting, like a whole bunch of work. Still other possibilities come to mind. Maybe dive master? Leading scuba diving excursions through warm and clear water to tropical coral reefs seems like an enjoyable way to spend the workday.

If nothing else, I remain determined to change at least one of my job titles — from aspiring novelist to published novelist.

What do you want to be when you grow up?