2018. Finally.

I am occasionally superstitious. Of course, I can’t go for the conventional superstitions. Someone wishing me good luck before a performance, for example, doesn’t bother me, and I only avoid saying “Macbeth” out of respect for everyone I know who does take that seriously.

My husband doesn’t even like me to say it in the house.

But vibes/resonances? Those make sense to me. I mean, synchronicity can’t just be random coincidence. (Please, don’t start in on god. You won’t convert me.)

You know how there’s that transition period when a new year starts where you just can’t get the year right when writing the date? Well, four years ago, I wrote “2018.” Of course, I dismissed it as some weird fluke of subconscious number association. Except I caught myself doing that throughout the year. And every year since.

So what does 2018 have in store for me that I felt it four years out?

Maybe it will be wonderful. Just by the fact that I have my daughter to share this year with, it’s already wonderful. But maybe this is also the year my writing starts to become something like the career I’ve imagined. No, I can’t just sit back and expect it to happen. I’ll have to work my ass off and hope the stars align. After all, all the vibes and resonance in the universe can only offer me the potential.

Maybe 2018 will be terrible. With the puerile farce in the White House, chances of nuclear war and a thousand other tragedies are appallingly close. To say nothing of the countless other horrific possibilities of a more personal nature.

Or maybe it means nothing at all and this year will neither be fantastically good or horrifically bad.

All I really know is that I have an entire year ahead of me and I’m doing everything in my power to make it the best I can.

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