The Author is Dead | Long Live the Reader by Faye Snowden

During the Left Coast Crime mystery convention in San Francisco last week, I had a fascinating conversation with Claire Johnson about her new book, For Thee, (coming, June 23, 2026). It is a fictionalized memoir of Pauline Pfeiffer’s marriage to Ernest Hemingway. Pfeiffer was a fashion journalist from a wealthy, well-respected family who wrote for Vogue and Vanity Fair. Since I already know that Claire is the award-winning author of the Fog City noir series, I wasn’t at all surprised to hear that For Thee won gold in the Florida Writers Association’s Royal Palm Literary Awards.

What did surprise me, however, were the things she told me about Hemingway. I’ve always loved his books; I’m just unfashionable enough to say that he’s still one of my favorite writers. (Don’t judge me.) How can anyone not like Ernest Hemingway’s work? The Old Man and the Sea? I love the part when Santiago asks the boy Manolin, “Sit down. Tell me about the baseball.” For some reason, that line rocked me. (Okay, fine. Didn’t rock you? That’s because you have to do the voice. It’s better with the voice.) Maybe I was so struck by the baseball reference because in the same narrative space as this simple line is an old man who catches a huge marlin only to see his prize devoured by sharks. I don’t care what you say. No one could have seen a twist like that coming.

But the cruelty Hemingway inflicted on his wives, his friends, author colleagues and acquaintances? That floored me. Claire put it this way on her website, “A devout Catholic when she meets Ernest, Pauline rejects the moral tenets of her childhood and faith for a man who ten years later will edit her out of his life with the same casual disdain as he would a badly written sentence.” I can imagine what Floyd Burns, the serial killer character in my southern gothic Killing series would say about someone like Hemingway. He’d call him a scallywag. Billy Ray, the ex-homicide detective turned proud owner of a Creole restaurant would say, “That man ain’t worth the powder it’d take to blow him to hell.” They would both be right.

 

Pfeiffer cutting Hemingway's hair.
Those scissors are sharp, right?
All she'd have to do is...never mind.

Hemingway’s behavior was new to me because I’m the type of reader who doesn’t care to know about the lives of my authors. I’ve been this way since I was a teenager. In grad school, when I read literary critic Roland Barthes’ essay, “Death of the Author”, I realized that I had found my people. Here’s Barthes’ hot take: Interpretation should never be based on the author’s intent or her biography or who she is as a person. And the ‘correct’ interpretation of the book can’t be discovered like a treasure hidden inside the author's skull.

Instead, interpretation is the purview of the reader. It’s in the reader’s hands that the work mutates into new life the author perhaps never intended. I’m not talking about one interpretation here, but the varied and many, driven by the experiences and perceptions each reader brings to the text. Once a book is published, the story enters into a conversation the author cannot control. It’s the same as I tell my kids when they try to discipline my grandkids in my house, “This is Ma’dear’s house. You have no power here.”

 

 

All of this brings me to the question of the week, Have readers ever interpreted your message differently than you expected? I can't  answer this question because I don’t read reviews, argue, even in a friendly way, with readers who interpret my books differently than I do. I do believe, however, and this is my hot take, that traces of the writer’s character seep into the text. When Claire spilled the tea on Hemingway, I was surprised. But never once did I think, “Oh, he couldn’t have done that.”  Although I love the powerful simplicity of his work, this reader detects in his books and short stories a stunning lack of empathy. 

In conclusion, Readers, go forth and read, and then tell us authors what we meant. Authors, let go. If this disturbs you, you may comfort yourself by having ice cream for dinner. Ice cream makes everything better. Don’t go as far as Umberto Eco suggests. Just the ice cream. Trust me.

Do You See What I See? From James W. Ziskin

Have readers ever interpreted your message differently than you expected? 

Of course they have. 

 

You might as well ask me if I see what others see when I look at myself in the mirror. I doubt it. I’m used to my mug. After—mumbles—years, I’ve grown accustomed to it. But strangers might not feel the same way. And while I don’t see the reflection of a suave matinee idol in an ascot gazing back at me, neither do I see Quasimodo. I’ll take that as a win.

No, I don’t expect people to share my opinions on anything I see in the mirror or in the world. And the same is true for Ellie Stone. When my first book, Styx & Stone, came out, I thought people would love my plucky, damaged, twenty-three-year-old heroine the same way I did. Despite her flaws and occasional bad decisions, I was sure readers would see her as an immensely likable and principled person, the smartest one in any room. She has great charm and wit, after all, exhibits tremendous bravery in the face of horrible, bullying men—especially when considered against the period she lives in (early 1960s)—and she truly feels empathy for the victims whose murders she investigates. She’s a small, unimposing woman with great courage, conviction, and a head of unruly hair.

And yet, to my chagrin, not everyone saw her that way. Many readers didn’t warm to her. Some found her unlikable because of her wicked sense of humor. (She once removed a hated colleague’s IBM Selectric type ball and dropped it out the fifth floor window to the street below just to see how high it would bounce.) Other readers disapproved of her “congress” with males of the species, stating that, of course, it was obvious a man had written her. Hmm. Perhaps my name on the cover of the book was the first clue… And more still expressed horror that she drank and smoked like a man. But here’s the thing: that was my intention from the start. 

Right or wrong—naively perhaps—I had set out to write a female character who challenged the tropes of the genre. I wanted readers to reflect on why it’s perfectly fine for a male protagonist to smoke, drink, and sleep around, refusing to grow up or settle down, but a woman? Heaven forfend. No woman ever slept around before the sexual revolution. Read Helen Gurley Brown’s Sex and the Single Girl (1962) if you believe that.

With time, readers—at least those who stuck around—embraced Ellie more willingly as a character they liked and cared about. Or maybe my books got a little better with each new installment. Who knows? At any rate, some readers now said they worried about her drinking or her future, just as we all might do for a loved one who struggles with addiction and suffers from bad choices. Fans wondered when Ellie might tame some of her more reckless impulses. And I believe she has. Some of them anyway.

Later, in Bombay Monsoon, I encountered similar reactions from readers. Maybe they were expecting a more traditional hero. I thought my protagonist, Danny Jacobs, was endearing in his naïveté and lack of good sense. Many readers liked him too, but others wanted something more along the lines of James Bond or Jack Reacher instead. Danny, on the other hand, trusts the wrong people and falls for the wrong girl. I wanted him to be that way. I wanted to write a character I saw as a fairly regular guy caught up in events bigger than he is. It was fun watching how he managed to get out of dangerous scrapes with his neck and principles intact. That’s how I saw him.

Of course, readers have their own ideas, their own preferences. That’s what makes a horse race, as I’m fond of saying. And yet every time I write new characters, I hope the public will love them as much as I do. I hope they’ll see the same face I see in the glass. But of course they won’t. And I’ve accepted that. I’ve had to. No choice, really. 

So I’ll soldier on, writing the kind of stories and heroes I want to read about. If readers love them, I’m thrilled and flattered. But if they don’t, well, any mirror will tell you that you can’t please all the people all the time. (By the way, I’m the guy in the mirror wearing the ascot, not the other one.)

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A beautiful thing

Have readers ever interpreted your message differently than you expected?

by Dietrich

I’m aware of readers occasionally interpreting elements of my stories in ways that I hadn’t intended—sometimes funny, sometimes thoughtful, and always as a reminder that once a book is out there, it belongs to the reader as much as to the writer. It’s all good. It means somebody’s reading my books.

One thing that’s come up is how some readers end up rooting for the lowlifes, the schemers, the outright criminals who drive much of the action in my books. I don’t set out to make them heroes, but I do aim to give them depth, flaws, motivations, and even a twisted kind of charm. When a reader cheers for the marginal who’s the worst person in the room, or feels a pang of disappointment when justice finally catches up, it’s both satisfying and a little unsettling. It shows the characters have come alive on the page in ways that go beyond simple good-vs-evil lines. It reminds me how fiction can blur those moral boundaries, pulling readers into perspectives they wouldn’t embrace in real life. In the end, if someone’s invested enough to care—whether they’re hoping the character gets away with it or secretly wants them to crash and burn—then I’ve done my job.

One memorable moment came at a reading event where two audience members ended up in a friendly but animated disagreement about tone. One found the work I was reading from dark and bordering on grim. The other defended it as empathetic and funny. I just stood and listened, realizing both were right—depending on where you enter the story. The same scenes had one reader feel the weight of the characters’ bad choices, while the other cracked up at the sheer ridiculousness of how those choices played out. I hadn’t set out to split the room, but it showed how the mix of noir grit and wry humor can land differently person-to-person.

Under an Outlaw Moon was inspired by the real-life story of Bennie and Stella Mae Dickson, a couple pulling heists in the 1930s. Some readers focused on the romance and the thrill of the outlaw life, rooting for the protagonists as events spiraled. Others zeroed in on the historical desperation, the Hoover-era pursuit, and saw it as more tragic than adventurous. I intended both—the excitement of the road and the inevitable crash. Hearing how some saw it as a doomed love story while others read it as a cautionary tale about chasing quick scores made me appreciate how personal experience shapes what jumps off the page.

With Vancouver-set books, Ride the Lightning and Triggerfish, the city’s rain-soaked, laid-back-but-edgy atmosphere is a big part of the vibe. A reader unfamiliar with the city told me she pictured the settings so vividly she felt like she’d walked those streets—only to be surprised when I mentioned that certain details were composites or inventions. One reader from Germany wrote about the translated version of The Deadbeat Club, convinced a particular dive bar in Whistler was real and wanted to know its address so they could visit on an upcoming trip to the West Coast. I had to admit it was stitched together from a few places I’d known over the years. That kind of immersion is flattering, but it also shows how readers fill in the blanks with their own imaginations, sometimes more literally than I expected.

In The Get, where the criminal schemes are elaborate and the humor leans sharper, I got feedback from a reader who latched onto a side character’s motivations in ways I hadn’t anticipated. The reader read a certain betrayal as pure self-preservation; while I meant it as pure greed. Either interpretation worked within the story. That’s the beauty, and occasional surprise, of fiction: subtext and nuance invite multiple interpretations.

The takeaway for me has been that no two readers bring the same lens. What I write with a wink might hit someone as dead serious. What I layer with irony can come across as straight commentary. While I’ve never had anyone complain about a massive misreading that derailed the core message, the variations in emphasis keep things interesting. I love hearing those kinds of comments from readers at events, in emails, or reviews. It’s nice when the conversation doesn’t end when the book does.

Message Clear or Fuzzy?

 

Terry here with our question of the week: Have readers ever interpreted your message differently than you expected? 

 For readers to interpret a “message” means I have to have an intended message. I usually have some kind of social issue at the heart of my novels. In the past that’s included corrupt or incompetent cops, treatment of veterans in the U.S., family abuse, gambling addiction, dog fighting, women’s reproductive rights, ecological carelessness, guns rights, and the desperation that comes from financial insecurity. 

I don’t always have a message to impart. It’s more an exploration of the issues and how people deal with them. But that exploration can sometimes lead readers to think I’m leaning heavily one way or another. 

For example, in my novel The Troubling Death of Maddy Benson, reproductive rights were at the heart of the novel. I went to great pains to present positions other than my own and to not make anyone the “bad guy.” And yet, I had a couple of readers who were huffy in their reviews. One said that in the novel all the people in favor of abortion were good people and those in opposition were bad people. Yet other readers praised the novel for being fair to those with differing opinions. I suppose the answer is more in the mind of the reader than in the book I wrote. 

 My novel A Reckoning in the Back Country dealt with the difficult and horrendous subject of dog fighting. I knew early in writing the series that eventually I’d have to tackle the subject because you can’t write about rural Texas and pretend illegal dog fighting doesn’t exist. I did a lot of research, and found some interesting attitudes that I didn’t expect. In particular, that some people who were engaged in what is loosely called the “sport” loved their dogs and would pull them out of a fight if they felt the dogs were being too injured. Not that it made the fighting any more palatable to me, but it was interesting. I also found that the biggest reason law enforcement shies away from pursuing legal recourse against those who participate is that dog fighting advocates don’t hesitate to kill law officers. I read about two officers who risked their lives by going undercover to investigate a dog-fighting ring. 

 These were matters that made the book more important to me. Yet I had some readers who simply refused to read the book because of the subject matter. I can’t fault anyone for not wanting to plunge into that world, but I find it interesting that readers don’t have a problem reading about pretty much any other subject concerning murder, but they draw the line at dog fighting. 

My last example is an odd one from my latest book, The Curious Poisoning of Jewel Barnes. Two things stand out. In a couple of professional reviews, the reviewers complained that there were too many characters. The idea from my point of view was to present a big family that had a lot of issues among them (based on my extended family). I thought I had done a decent job of highlighting the important characters and using the others as background. The reviewers were not happy. Except that many of my readers told me they loved reading about the extended family. When I asked if they thought there were too many characters introduced, they were puzzled and said they had no trouble keeping them straight. So. Go figure. 

But there was another aspect of this book that was either skipped over by readers, or I didn’t do a good job of presenting. I wanted to present a real and serious dilemma, in which Craddock has to decide between making sure justice is done on the one hand, and saving the lives of people who are threatened if he does so on the other. Not one reader has mentioned that pivotal moment to me. I expected it to be an important part of what readers took away. The book is published and there’s nothing to be done about it, but I’m curious why the message seems not to have resonated. 

Other than those few examples, I think most readers “get” what I’m writing. At least I hope so.

The Perfect Murder by Poppy Gee

There are a limited number of ways to kill someone. How do you keep from repeating them? Or do you not worry about that at all? 

"It's harder to kill a snake than it is a person."

That's a line from my 2013 debut novel, Bay of Fires. The guy who says it is an odd, reclusive man who lives in a remote and rundown house with his cats. I actually stole the line from an interview I saw with the brother of one of Australia's most infamous murderers, the Bangalow State Forest killer. 

I imagine the logistics of killing a person are, in fact, easier than killing a poisonous snake. The challenge is, how to get away with it. Mistakes killers often make include: Googling information relating to their plans; lying unconvincingly to police, friends and family; or simply buying a mushroom dehydrator and then throwing it out days after their family members die from poisoned mushrooms. 

A police officer told me that most murders happen inadvertently, for example, a fight that gets out of hand. He said usually murderers don't mean to kill. When a person hasn't planned to commit the crime, they leave a trail of evidence, which often includes CCTV footage or phone records. This is helpful for homicide detectives.   

It can be boring in a book though, if the murder mystery is clear cut. 

Premeditation is a luxury for a writer. You have a really good opportunity to commit the perfect crime.

I think the type of murder should reveal something about the people and the place. Agatha Christie used her knowledge of pharmacy to kill her characters in a wide range of interesting ways that were relevant and revealing to the era. Tana French leans into Irish countryside and cultural traditions to create fascinating environments for her murders. 

In my last book, Vanishing Falls, one of the murder weapons was a poisonous substance used by farmers in the area. I won't do that again. Chemistry is not my strength, and it required so much research, tweaking of the crime scene, the clues, the investigation, to make it plausible. It wasn't much fun - locking down those factual details drove me crazy. A gun would have been easier, although no one has guns in Australia except farmers, organised crime gangs and police officers. 

I have a great idea in my current WIP where a character disposes of a body. I can't reveal it yet, in case someone steals the idea before I manage to get it published. It involves a boat. That's all I'm going to say. My character has been planning the murder for months, if not years. It's the perfect murder... as long as no one sees him returning to dry land. 

Pick your Poison, by Catriona

There are a limited number of ways to kill someone. How do you keep from repeating them? Or do you not worry about that at all?

Well, I didn't worry about it. I will now. Seriously, it's not something I've ever considered, but for this blog I thought I'd review murder methods in the books I've written. I'm not goin to illustrate this post with book jackets, for obvious reasons. I went with cats.

Rachel doesn't really read crime fiction

Okay then, in joint fifth place with one entry each, there's:

• burned to death in a fire
• clumped over the head with a blunt instrument
• aspirated emesis (it's maybe murder, if you roll a drunk onto their back and leave them)
• shot 
• boiled 

She makes exceptions

In joint fourth place, turning up twice, there's:

• pushed from a height
• dismembered
• poisoned

In third place, having been used three times, quite surprisngly because it's slow and horrible, we have:

• starvation 

She hates mystery conventions

Runners up, with four outings in my oeuvre, are:

• stabbed
• drowned

What can I say? I like kitchen equipment and I come from a small island with a lot of sea. 

But I think I also like people not getting murdered, because a whopping eight times, making it the outright winner,  is:

• no murder at all!

Someone might have died but maybe no one got offed. Or maybe no one even died. Cool. Fine by me.  Although one of the books this happened in is the one my husband calls "the concept album", what a bookseller called "the one where nothin happened", of which a reviewer said "if nothing's going to happen, you should find that out sooner than p.160". (I still like it.) 

It's a miracle I ever write anything

Anyway, none of that is necessarily true because as I was writing out book titles and jotting down causes of death, another category emerged. There were eight instances of:

• can't remember

Maybe twelve people have drowned in my books (small island). Maybe there have been eleven gun deaths (not likely). Pretty sure there's ony been one boiling, but I wouldn't swear to it.

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Everything is a weapon by Eric Beetner

  There are a limited number of ways to kill someone. How do you keep from repeating them? Or do you not worry about that at all? 

One of the highest compliments I’ve ever received on my novels came from a reviewer who remarked, after reading a few of my books, that I treat “everything as a weapon.” It’s true I have used unusual implements to cause mayhem and harm in my books. It’s one of the ways I like to keep things fresh.

Statistically, most murders take place with the expected items: guns, knives, blunt force trauma. But how many times can we see that and not get bored? It’s why I like to make characters improvise sometimes. Finding new and interesting ways to knock people off is one of the most fun parts of being a crime writer. And as if we didn't already look at the world in a slightly skewed perspective anyway, it really makes you look at ordinary objects differently. Do NOT take me into any kind of kitchen supply store. All that stuff is good for killing. A Williams-Sonoma is a death trap for a crime writer.

True, if you do use a unique way of bumping someone off, then it stands out if you use that method again, so often I have to say, “ok, I already used garden shears in that book. Can’t do that again. What else is there?” Not repeating myself does become a concern.

Still, one of my favorites came in a book that very few people have read so I’m tempted to re-use it. It is also the most graphic and disgusting death of anything I’ve written before or since. I had two characters facing off in the middle of a violent storm. The wind tears off a Yield sign and sends it hurtling through the hurricane-force winds to decapitate one of the characters. It gets more gross from there, but I always liked that one and it came as quite a shock for the people who did read it. Maybe someday I'll recycle that one.

One of my favorite unexpected deaths will always be from Raiders of the Lost Ark when Indiana Jones is faced with a sword-wielding badass and instead of some elaborate fight sequence or impromptu feat of daring from Indy, he simply removes his gun and shoots him. It’s a hilarious subversion of the expected and also, I think, highlights how dull simply shooting someone can be. In that scene, it comes of almost as cheating, it’s so easy for him. And it subverts your expectation of the big fight you were expecting. I think that scene is a great reminder that a more inventive way of doing in with someone is good for the audience. It only works there because all the other deaths have been so exotic – hidden spikes, plane propellers, giant boulders.

 

Ultimately, it comes down to the character behind whatever implement of death you choose. You can use nothing but guns, but how the characters use them is the unique element. They can be conflicted, confident, expert at the tool or rank beginners. They can be well matched with an opponent, or out classed entirely. There is a lot more that goes into a murder weapon when we understand the person behind it.

And, of course, the weapon itself can be used to obfuscate and deflect from detection in a mystery story. Maybe they used a gun and it all seems cut and dry, but that gun had false fingerprints placed on it. Or was registered to someone else. Of course, you can always do an Agatha Christie and use a frozen bit of meat and then eat the evidence. 

I definitely like to find new and interesting ways to create the chaos and violence in my novels. I think readers appreciate it. Because you live long enough and you realize it IS true – everything is a weapon if you’re desperate enough.

The Grammar of Violence

There are a limited number of ways to kill someone. How do you keep from repeating them? Or do you not worry about that at all?

I don’t worry about repeating methods of murder because I don’t write murder as spectacle. I keep violence offstage. Like a film under the Hays Code, the act itself is implied. What interests me is the chain of words, decisions, ambitions, and rationalizations that make the act inevitable.

That choice is ethical. Not because I’m squeamish. Not because I walk through life with moral blinkers. But because graphic violence is easy writing. Any competent writer can choreograph blood. Sentences. A paragraph. Done.

The harder task is showing how language engineers violence long before a trigger is pulled.

Crime is as old as civilization. The Bible is soaked in it. Classical literature invents cruelty. Look at how the Romans dealt with parricide. Shakespeare’s tragedies end with heaps of bodies; his comedies are a moratorium on the body count. The ancients understood something we prefer to forget: violence is personal, political, and divine.

For writers, exile has long been one of the cruelest penalties: the loss of language and community.

Ovid.

Dante Alighieri.

Victor Hugo.

Bertolt Brecht.

Oscar Wilde.

Stefan Zweig.

Isabel Allende.

Ahmed Naji.

Salman Rushdie.
 

Exile was more than physical removal; it attempted to silence thought, to sever creators from the very medium through which they wield influence. Words threaten authority; those who command them can unsettle the foundations of any empire.

We are fascinated by violence because we are capable of it. Traffic slows at the accident. We look, appalled and transfixed. We read crime fiction to seek justice, to see order restored. Some want the parsonage, the tidy puzzle, the assurance that daisies will grow again.

That’s comfort fiction. There’s nothing wrong with comfort. Novocain has its uses. But don’t confuse reality with Hallmark.

The truth is we are a violent species. History proves it. The Renaissance refined torture. Germany gave the world Bach, Beethoven, Brahms — and Hitler. Culture and barbarity share the same nervous system.

I have seen violence up close. Circumstances and context are irrelevant. It is not cinematic. It is not redemptive. It is chaotic, kinetic, and once witnessed, it alters you permanently. That is why I refuse to aestheticize it.

In my novel Eyes to Deceit, the architect of the 1953 Iranian coup d’etat, Allen W. Dulles, uses persuasion, propaganda, and realpolitik. He arranges the conditions under which others will kill. My protagonist, Walker, is complicit without ever pulling the trigger. That is the violence that interests me: the polished bureaucrat in a suit.

In my forthcoming Company Files novel The Quiet Eagle, set during the Suez Crisis, Dulles bullied Britain and France to bend the knee and wagged his finger at Israel. He used violence as geopolitical grammar. The next novel after Suez, The Hour of the Predator, offers the psychological portrait of a female assassin in Budapest; it examines violence as pathology.

Sophisticated violence persuades. It signs memos. It sends communiqués. It waits.

Americans rarely see or understand violence done in their name. It happens off-screen — until it doesn’t. Think of Minnesota. Then comes outrage, then impotence. We commemorate September 11 as trauma, yet Italy endured 15 years of daily, unrelenting domestic terrorism during the Years of Lead. The Holocaust is abstract until you walk the grounds of the Vernichtungslagers and feel the mechanization of annihilation.

There’s an Italian idiom: sulla pelle — to feel something on your own skin. Not to understand it intellectually, but to absorb it until it alters you. That is what I aim for.

So no, I don’t worry about repeating ways to kill someone. Methods are finite. What is infinite is the human capacity to justify them.

If my work has a mission, it is not to invent new forms of death. It is to expose the rhetoric that makes death permissible — the language that allows civilized people to nod while someone else does the killing. That is more unsettling than blood on the page.

And it lasts longer.

Hmmm…a thousand ways to die you say?

There are a limited number of ways to kill someone. How do you keep from repeating them? Or do you not worry about that at all?

Yes, yes there is, and I’m interested in them all. Maybe that’s why I love the old mysteries like Sherlock Holmes and Agatha Christie, as well as I like all the CSI series. Nothing piques my interest more than that moment in the book or show when we find out the victim was killed my some super rare interaction between the victim’s soap and perfume that mixed together to create a toxic fume that suffocated the poor dear to death. Makes me grin every time.

Naturally, I’m always thinking about the ways that everyday items can become deadly weapons with just a bit of tweaking at the fingertips of an adventurous writer, doesn’t everybody? I mean, seriously, who knew that eyedrops could be such a deadly weapon? Not I. And I’m still not convinced that if someone chose to off me using this method, my local coroner would sus it out, no matter how many times I’ve seen it on Dateline.

And what about allergies. Who can say with one hundred percent surety that you knew that the corn chowder you served to your soon-to-be ex with the life and death shellfish allergy, before he had a chance to take your name off of their life insurance policy, was flavored with a bit of lobster tail. Not guilty. Am I right?

I’m not a whodunnit kind of writer. In my books the death normally comes circumstantially. So, for my writing no real planning of the murder is necessary. I’m able to let the scene dictate the manner of death naturally. For example, if an argument happens in the kitchen that has to lead to death, it’s probably going to be a kitchen utensil like a knife, a fork, or even a cast iron skillet.  But, someday, I’ll write that book where I get to creatively kill. And when I do, I have a decent reservoir of ways to die. And if I ever run out, sadly, this world just keeps on supplying more.                         

Just Put it in the Jar by Faye Snowden

 

Do you take stock of your life only at the beginning of the year, or do you check in periodically throughout the months? Are resolutions part of that process?

Being responsible for the Friday blog is a real boon! I can riff off of previous posts from people smarter and more together than I am! A jazz band to feed my improv. I loved how James teaches us how to diffuse a bomb, and ends with a poem reminding us to focus on the things we can control. Dietrich finds New Year’s guidance in books that can have a profound impact on the way we see the world. I have to say, Viktor E. Frankl’s Man’s Search for Meaning changed my perception of what it means to be human in an inhumane world as well. Terry resolves to be open, and experimental, urging us to read her blog to the end so she can ask a question that I’m not only still pondering, but has me a little disturbed. There was a moment there I thought we had a connection! Black-eyed peas on New Year’s day, but, ah me, maybe it just ain’t so. And being somewhat of a goal addict myself, I thoroughly enjoyed Matthew Greene’s Confessions of a Goal Addict and his notes on gratitude. All of this makes my job a little easier.

Regarding this New Year’s resolution question, please know that I’m a Capricorn born on December 31^st, which has always made New Year’s Eve a sad affair for me. Everyone celebrates the world turning another year older instead of my birthday while I sit all day in my pajamas watching reruns of The Twilight Zone, and lamenting being one more year closer to death. I’m also a project manager by trade. No, not a recovering project manager. A PROJECT MANAGER. I delight in saying, “Fail to plan, and plan to fail.”

Before I became wiser with the years, I’d search Hallmark or Staples for the perfect planner to document my goals. Sometimes, I would even make those goals SMART. If you have ever been in corporate, you’d know that SMART stands for Specific, Measurable, Achievable, Relevant and Timebound. (If you want something that’ll really drive you crazy,  contact me for a how-to guide. Author Faye would not recommend. Project Manager Faye would say go for it, but be careful, and only use it for your day job. It can become dangerous in the wrong hands.) Later, just like most of the planet, I would backslide after two or three days. I’d keep losing the planner on-accident-on-purpose. And then I would torture myself with the ‘you-screwed-up-again’ ritual beating.

What I’ve learned over the years about this behavior, however, is that I was in love with the process of making New Year’s resolutions, but not exactly fond of doing the work to achieve all of those impossible goals. It was a way for me to feel in control. But even without the process, I still got things done! Stories and books got written, family time was had and bills got paid. I took on more projects at my day job, and usually exercised more by walking miles while listening to audio books.

Now, instead of New Year’s resolutions, I review my accomplishments for the year on New Year's day, and frankly, anytime I’m feeling blue. Doing so eliminates that annual negative performance appraisals that some of my fellow bloggers mentioned, and I can forgo the annual ritual beatings. (This is good because I’m already dealing with the death thing and need a break.)

My kid in MMA & the jar of calm

Years ago I bought a granite jar in a touristy Albuquerque shop during a trip for one of my son’s first MMA fights. I needed calming down because I couldn’t believe my second born was voluntarily going to enter a cage to get beat on and to also beat on someone else. This didn’t fit my pacifist disposition. The stone jar felt solid, cool to the touch. It steadied my nerves. But now I use it for my accomplishments. Throughout the year, I write my successes and even moments of joy on Post-it notes. I fold those Post-its into tiny squares, pop the lid off the jar, and drop them inside. On New Year's day and anytime I feel the need, I open that jar, unfold and read all of those little Post-It notes. Doing so helps me to remember while I am human and fallible, I can get things done sans the wasted time planning the impossible and the ritual self-torture.

 

How to Defuse a Bomb from James W. Ziskin

Do you take stock of your life only at the beginning of the year, or do you check in periodically throughout the months? Are resolutions part of that process?

How To Defuse A Bomb

Instructions

Page 1

1. Unscrew and remove the cover plate marked “Danger: High Explosives DO NOT REMOVE”

2. Find the blue wire connected to the negative terminal.

3. Cut the blue wire to disarm the bomb.

Page 2

4. But before you cut the blue wire, check to see if there is also a red wire.

5. If you find a red wire connected to the positive terminal, cut the red one.

6. Nota bene: Cutting the blue wire instead of the red wire will cause the bomb to detonate immediately.

7. Good luck!

That’s me. A smudge on the pavement after failing to read and follow the instructions carefully. And my New Year’s resolutions would certainly suffer the same fate were I to take them seriously. But, of course, I don’t. Yes, I publish my “I Hereby Resolve” poem each year in this space, but you don’t actually think I intend to follow through on any of those long-term goals, do you? I’m honest enough to admit I never look farther than my next step. Or the next sentence in a bomb-defusing manual.

One foot in front of the other, that’s my motto. Head down. That way I won’t step in dog poo. And that mirrors my writing strategy, at least of late. I’ve become a pantser—mostly. Sure, I know where I want to go, but I don’t necessarily have a clear route in mind. As E.L. Doctorow said, “Writing a novel is like driving a car at night. You can see only as far as your headlights.”

I stumble through the year in a similar way. One day at a time, updating my goals and resolutions with each new dawn. Every day offers a fresh opportunity to improve myself and the world. So, yes, I take stock of my life often. That’s what explains the sobbing.

But since this week’s question deals with New Year’s resolutions, here is my poem, yet again, so that you may judge whether I’ve succeeded or simply kidded myself.

Thursday, January 8, 2026

I Hereby Resolve

Upon the first of Jan-u-ary each and every year

I choose a comfy cushioned chair on which to park my rear

Then taking pencil, pen, or plume I think with all my might

About my life, my hopes, my dreams, and then begin to write

I make a note of all my flaws, my missteps, and my sins

And number them from one to ten and sort them into bins:

A catalogue of wishes, goals, and changes to achieve,

To lose some weight, to write more books, and royalties receive!

But not all thoughts are for myself, I also have a heart

So I resolve to do some good, pitch in, and play my part,

To be a better person and to help human-i-tee,

Or maybe just be satisfied to keep my san-i-tee

For all in all you must admit that things are not so good

At home, abroad, in Baltimore, and in your neighborhood

With guns and hate and politics and fears we cannot quell

It often seems we’re on a highway heading straight to hell 

But then I reason as I sit here in my pensive pose

Some things I can control and fix, so why not start with those?

My wrath, my sloth, and moods most foul are faults I could improve

Why not correct them right away? Cast out, erase, remove?

While in the past I must admit that my resolve was frail

This time my pledge is resolute; I don’t intend to fail

I vow to change, to grow, to thrive, and forge myself anew

And through hard work and sweat and blood I’ll make my dreams come true

But just in case my will is weak and my plans gang ag-ley

I’ll save this verse for twelve months more until next New Year’s Day

Then with high hopes and best intents I’ll shout for all to hear

The very same prom-is-es that I made and broke this year

710

Seroegheroij

Between the Pages

Do you take stock of your life only at the beginning of the year, or do you check in periodically throughout the months? Are resolutions part of that process?

by Dietrich

I skip the New Year’s resolutions that just turn into grand proclamations that fizzle out by February. Instead of drifting into a new year without a rudder, I turn to little bits of guidance hidden in books—not trendy self-help manifestos, but the timeless works that offer insight for navigating life’s messy turns.

The first that stands out is Viktor E. Frankl’s Man’s Search for Meaning. Drawn from his experiences in Nazi concentration camps, Frankl distills a profound truth: even when everything is stripped away, we still retain the freedom to choose our attitude. That single idea gives me more direction than any resolution ever could. It’s a constant reminder to focus on what I can control and let go of what I can’t.

I recently added Marcus Aurelius’ Meditations to the shelf. The Roman emperor’s private reflections emphasize that we have power over our minds, not over external events. In a world that often feels fractured and chaotic, that simple truth cuts through the noise more effectively than any January vow.

Another book that’s stayed with me is Black Elk Speaks, the life story of an Oglala Lakota holy man, visionary, and healer. Through his words (recorded by John G. Neihardt), Black Elk speaks of true peace, balance, and living in harmony with the natural world and one’s community.

I also find unexpected uplift in characters from popular fiction. Atticus Finch in Harper Lee’s To Kill a Mockingbird embodies quiet integrity, and he stands firm for what’s right, even when it’s unpopular. He’s a steady reminder to maintain composure under pressure.

Sherlock Holmes, from Arthur Conan Doyle’s stories, offers timeless lessons in observation and logic. “You see, but you do not observe.” That line never fails to nudge me toward paying deeper attention.

Gandalf in J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings blends wisdom with decisive action—he knows when to exercise restraint and when to wield that big stick.

And though I don’t usually quote Yoda, there’s real wisdom in his words: “Do or do not. There is no try.” It cuts straight to the heart of commitment, urging one to avoid half-measures and to follow through.

When I take stock, I simply pull one of these books off the shelf and open it at random. Whatever falls from those pages tends to outlast any fleeting resolution. A dash of Atticus’ steadfastness, a touch of Gandalf’s patience, a reminder from Frankl to choose my attitude—drawing from a deep well of accumulated insight.

Skipping resolutions doesn’t mean skipping growth. Rather than waiting for the calendar to flip, I like to open one of those special books any time of year and let the good stuff sink in.

RESOLVED-- Be More Open

 

Terry here, with our question for the week: Do you take stock of your life only at the beginning of the year, or do you do it periodically throughout the year? Are resolutions part of that process? 

 NOTE: Please read carefully. At the end, I have a question for you. 

What is it about January that makes us suddenly reflective? The flip of a calendar page, a brand-new planner, twelve empty months stretching ahead like untouched snow — and there we are, taking stock of our lives as if we’ve scheduled an annual performance review with ourselves. 

Do you do that? Conduct a formal audit of your own existence once a year? 

I used to. It felt responsible. January 1 — or maybe January 2, once the football games and black-eyed peas were out of the way — I’d sit down with a notebook and ask the big questions. What did I accomplish? What didn’t I? Where did I drift? Where did I grow? It felt responsible to measure my life in tidy twelve-month increments. 

And of course, resolutions were part of the ritual. Exercise more. Write more. Eat better. Call people back. Waste less time. The usual list that somehow manages to be both ambitious and vague. I’d draft them carefully, almost ceremoniously, as though this were less about self-improvement and more about launching a strategic initiative. Some years I kept them. 

Some years I didn’t. Most years they faded quietly by March, overtaken by the simple business of living. 

What I’ve come to wonder is this: why do we assume that January is the only legitimate time to evaluate our lives? 

Life doesn’t actually operate on a calendar-year schedule. Insights show up in April. Regret taps you on the shoulder in September. Gratitude sneaks in on a random Tuesday in June when nothing extraordinary has happened except that you suddenly notice you’re content. There’s no confetti. No countdown. Just a quiet realization that something has shifted. 

Some of my most honest moments of self-assessment haven’t come at the beginning of a year at all. They’ve arrived in the middle — usually uninvited. A project stalls. A plan unravels. An opportunity appears that I hadn’t considered. Something forces a pause. And in that pause comes the question: Is this still working? Is this still what I want? 

That kind of stock-taking feels different. Less ceremonial. More urgent. More real. 

It doesn’t involve a new planner or a neatly ruled page. It’s more like recalibration than resolution. A small course correction. Sometimes a bigger turn. Often just a quiet adjustment in attitude. 

I’ve also noticed that the January model carries a subtle pressure. There’s something about declaring a resolution that feels bold — and faintly theatrical. “This year I will…” It sounds decisive. Strong. Determined. But it can also set up a kind of pass-fail system. By February, if the gym visits are irregular or the word count is low, the narrative shifts to disappointment. 

And disappointment is not exactly motivating. 

Periodic reflection throughout the year feels gentler. It’s less about reinvention and more about awareness. A quarterly check-in, perhaps. Or even a monthly one. Not to judge, but to notice. What’s energizing me? What’s draining me? What have I quietly outgrown? What have I been avoiding? 

Those questions don’t require fireworks or champagne. They can be asked on an ordinary Wednesday afternoon. 

There’s also something to be said for the accumulation of small adjustments. We often imagine growth as dramatic — a bold new direction, a sweeping change. But more often it’s incremental. A habit tweaked here. A boundary set there. A decision to say yes — or no — when it matters. 

In that sense, life feels less like an annual report and more like an ongoing conversation. 

That doesn’t mean I’ve abandoned New Year’s reflections entirely. I still appreciate the symbolism of a fresh start. There’s something psychologically satisfying about a clean page. It invites hope. It suggests possibility. I suspect that’s why we cling to resolutions. They’re declarations of optimism. Statements of belief that we can, in fact, do better. 

But I’ve softened my approach. 

Instead of rigid resolutions, I lean toward intentions. Instead of sweeping promises, I try for directional nudges. Less “I will completely transform this aspect of my life,” and more “I’d like to move in this direction.” The difference may seem subtle, but it changes the tone. It allows room for humanity. 

Because if there’s one thing the past few years have demonstrated, it’s that life resists our neat timelines. Circumstances shift. Priorities change. Energy ebbs and flows. What felt urgent in January may feel irrelevant by July — and that’s not failure. That’s evolution. 

So do I take stock only at the beginning of the year? Not anymore. I try — not always successfully — to do it periodically. When something feels off. When something feels especially right. When I sense drift. When I sense growth. 

Resolutions? Sometimes. But they’re quieter now. Less proclamation, more intention. Less public vow, more private awareness. 

Maybe the point isn’t to reinvent ourselves every January. Maybe it’s simply to stay awake to our own lives. To notice when we’re aligned and when we’re not. To allow for course corrections without waiting for permission from the calendar. 

After all, change doesn’t wait for January. 

And neither should we. 

QUESTION: Do you think this post sounded like me? What if I told you it was written by ChatGPT? It was. Last Friday I had a chat with friends about AI and thought it would be interesting to ask ChatGPT to write this week’s blog. I fed it five random blogs from last year and then told it to write an 800 word blog post. I hope you don’t think it’s cheating. It was only intended as an interesting exercise. I was surprised at how well-written and well-thought-out the post was. But…does it sound like me? Not entirely. I do tend to write in little chunks for the blog, but these were real "sound bites." Also, it seemed a little repetitious--the same ideas reworded.

What do you think?