Sadly, I only remember one of my 2009 New Year’s resolutions, and unfortunately it was a drastic failure. After reading a book a month in ’07, and 16 books in ’08, I made the ambitious goal to read 36 books this past year. The final total? I was part-way through my tenth book when 2009 came to an end.

In late 2008, and the first few months of 2009, I came to find value in New Year’s resolutions and birthday reflections; once upon a time I found both to be pointless wastes of time. But there’s something powerful and revealing when you take the time to set goals for your future and reflect on your past. In essence, there is true value to be had in doing both and — lucky for me — New Years and my birthday fall six months apart, making it a semi-annual ritual.

So, we come to 2010, and begin where 2009 was an utter failure: books. Again, I plan to be ambitious. What is the point of setting a goal that won’t be a challenge? Yet I’m hopeful this year, it will be attainable. Twenty-four books — an achievable, yet challenging two per month. My reading list is easily twice as large with books being added constantly, so there will be no shortage of desired material.

Next, the cliché of all New Years clichés: fitness. Little over a month ago, upon completing Donald Miller’s A Million Miles in a Thousand Years — which is a memoir about attempting to live a better story — I decided I, too, wanted to tell a better story with my life, and chose to begin training for a half-Ironman (1.2 mile swim, 56 mile bike, 13.1 mile run), which takes place in Boise this June. To this point, my training has been a disaster, though it’s not too late to turn it around and be ready in six months. While Boise is still my primary goal, I don’t want to end up pushing my body too hard, and in the event that six months is too soon, I still, would like to at least reach the training level of a half-Ironman this year. Since the conclusion of the water polo season my freshman year of college, in 2002-03, my working out has been sporadic at best. In 2010, I hope to get into a healthy routine. I likely will never be training up to five hours a day, as I did swimming in high school, but it’d be nice to get back into a regular fitness routine.

Also in the year ahead, I’d like to take a major step in my career. As the year begins, there are couple of obvious directions that step could be. Each would be progress, but none are assured; and who knows if another opportunity will pop up. What I do know, though, is I would like to commit to one, and forge ahead. Be it Wired Oregon, the media company I’ve founded, developing into a financially sustainable project, or taking a position that is both a good career move and can provide some much-needed cash flow into my checking account. In any case, I need to find myself in a creative position. I’ve spent too much of 2009 studying and brainstorming ways to invent new media strategies for the digital age to get stuck doing medial tasks with no creative flexibility.

Finally — and I’ve touched on it briefly already — I want to live a better story. Several books I read this year struck that chord: the aforementioned Donald Miller book; William Zinsser’s Writing Places; John Eldridge’s Captivating; even fiction novels like Garth Stein’s The Art of Racing in the Rain and Stephen Galloway’s The Cellist of Sarajevo. Sometimes, it becomes obvious the universe is trying to teach you something. For me, in 2009, it was telling me to get my butt in gear and start living better.

Life is all about transforming from one person in the beginning to an entirely different being in the end.

As we move through life, as we live, participate and even help create our own stories, we change.

Or, so we hope.

The last several months I’ve been subject to profound change. Earth-shattering, the-world-is-not-flat types of change; they have shaken beliefs, habits and relationships to their core.

Lately, I’ve become a fan of the memoir. I enjoy reading or observing people’s stories. Maybe it’s the deep-rooted journalist/storyteller in me, or maybe I’m just human and enjoy a good story. Inherently, since reading more and more memoirs, I’ve looked at my life as a long story – wondering how this particular chapter in my life reads, trying to notice in-the-moment the closing of a chapter or daydreaming of what the future story holds.

Lots of daydreaming, and it always ends up being a great story. Funny how that works, huh?

But lately, maybe even always, if I’m just now waking up to the fact – I haven’t lived a good story. I’ve always played it safe, and sought a life of comfort over risk and adventure.

That’s not what makes a good story.

I’m not saying I need to jump off a cliff or climb Mount Everest — though mountain climbing has always had a certain appeal to me — rather, I need to listen to that voice inside me, or what Donald Miller in his book A Million Miles in a Thousand Years, calls “The Writer,” when it tells me to step off the safe path I’ve chosen.

I was watching a reality show on television… and I wondered what a show might look like if a camera followed me around. I wondered what people would think. That is, setting aside my daydreams and wants and thoughts and revealing my life through an objective camera lens. The thought was humbling. In truth, I was a person who daydreamed and then wrote down his daydreams. Sure, there were other characters, friends and business associates, but I wasn’t living any kind of sacrifice. My entire life had been designed to make myself more comfortable, to insulate myself from interruption of my daydreams. – A Million Miles in a Thousand Years, pg. 77.

In the last few months, I’ve become just short of obsessed with the movie (500) Days of Summer. It just feels like a story I’ve lived, or, had I put pen to paper – would have written. I’ve watched the film and put myself in the place of the protagonist, Tom, imagining the cameras follow me through the ups and downs of a relationship. I can even identify with the preamble of the story, where Tom is described as growing “up believing that he’d never truly be happy until the day he met ‘the one.’ This belief stemmed from early exposure to sad British pop music and a total misreading of the movie, ‘The Graduate.’”

The Graduate, another premise of a story I can identify with, lounging around while failing to live a good story.

And it’s true, I have a deep-rooted belief that I’ll be unhappy until I meet ‘her,’ and have a family. In fact, my deepest rooted fear is never getting that. My daydreams, my many, many daydreams center around whichever particular woman I’m infatuated with in my mind this week, and what that life would look like. I’m great at daydreaming beautiful, romantic love stories. I’m horrible at creating a real life story.

It’s an odd feeling to be awakened from a life of fantasy. You stand there looking at a bare mantel and the house gets an eerie feel, as though it were haunted by a kind of nothingness, an absence of something that could have been, an absence of people who could have been living there, interacting with me, forcing me out of my daydreams. – A Million Miles in a Thousand Years, pg. 76.

So, here I am awakened from a life of fantasy, looking at a room void of pictures that would tell a grand story and wondering what step I need to take.

Ever since I could walk, my parents have dubbed me “Mr. Safety.”

I was never one to take much risk.

As such, I’ve never experienced much pain; On the flip side it could probably be said I’ve never really experienced the joy that comes in conquering risks either.

Sure, I’ve played sports, and I’ve flown down a mountain on skis exceeding 60 mph, but for the most part every “risk” was controlled.

What occurred a couple weekends ago was also controlled risk, but something went terribly wrong and for the first time in my life I landed in the emergency room with broken bones.

Up until that moment, my strength and composure had never really been tested.

*

My family was spending a warm day on the lake celebrating a birthday. The day was quickly coming to an end, and so my grandfather, uncle, cousin Monica and I decided to go tubing one last time.

Up until our last run, the day had been without incident. There were a few of the spectacular flips one expects when tubing on the lake, but those rarely result in anything more that some water up your nose.

After pronouncing to those on the boat that it’d be my last turn on the tube and someone else could get ready, the boat started off with me bracing the tube expecting to get flipped at any moment.

Instead, I looked ahead and noticed the bank of rocks looked way too close. It quickly became obvious that there was no avoiding it. To jump off the tube would just result in my body being fully exposed to the jetty; instead, I tucked as tight as I could, using the tube as a shield.

For a brief moment, I thought somehow I had miraculously made it past the rocks and back into open water. Then I heard the “clunk.”

As best I can remember, I was never unconscious, but I did blackout about 30 seconds – because my first memory is of the boat pulling up to the rocks – which would have taken time to turn around and get to me.

Upon realizing I was alive, I noticed my ear was bleeding, but my head otherwise appeared to be okay. Only then did I look down to notice my left hand didn’t look as it should.

*

Maybe I was in shock, but as I remember the events that followed, I feel like I was in control of the situation. Sure, I was in pain, but I was able to calm my cousin who was crying on my behalf. My grandfather and uncle were still wondering how the crash didn’t end up killing me. Of the four of us on the boat, I feel like I was the most composed.

It’s because of that, I’m actually happy that an incident like this occurred. Not that I’m glad I had several dislocations and two fractures in my left hand, but I learned more about myself in that accident and in the hours that followed in the ER then I had in my entire life.

I’ve always been afraid to take risks because I feared I wouldn’t be strong enough. Now, I’ve seen I am. Bring on the risk and adventure.

Another childhood friend is getting married in a few hours.

I’m happy for her. But, what started as a tidbit of information for my mother, plunged into something deeper.

“So, there goes another one of your girls, huh Josh?”

I was never really interested in my friend who’s getting married, not romantically at least. My mother knew that as well, but her comment hit home.

I’m 25 and alone.

Sure, 25 is young-ish. But it’s not that young. It’s no longer a valid deflection.

I looked up from the table after realizing what my mother said, and thought, “she’s right.”

Another wholesome, loving, gorgeous, everything-you’d-want in a wife woman off the market, while I sit around and mope. Pretty much anyone I’d ever considered as marriage material in my life is either married off or likely with the one they will marry.

And for the first time since being single, the thoughts of alone aren’t about missing her, they’re deeper than that.

Thoughts of loneliness shifted to thoughts of friends who have passed away, all because a song came on the radio.

Music is a scary thing. The people and places our minds can recall all from a simple verse and melody.

Yet, instead of the usual onslaught of depression I typically feel when going down the path I usually try to avoid tonight, though sad; I feel an odd sense of peace I can’t quite explain.

I’ve never really been big on birthdays; or New Years for that matter. I understand why it’s important and symbolic for some people, it just never had been for me.

That all changed the year I was 24.

I had easily experienced the worst and most tragic year of my life. Fresh off a deep heart-break not a week old when I turned 24, it started bad and what I then thought impossible, only got worse.

Those closet to me know the tragedies I experienced. Maybe they would have been easier to weather had I been more open with more people, but in the end, what I experienced at 24 was something I had to go through, learn and experience for myself and with my immediate family. And for the first time in my life I learned to not depend on other people to get me through the day.

That’s a sad statement. One I’m not sure I’m proud to make. I take little pride in “doing it by myself,” but that said, it was needed, and a right of passage that had to take place. I now know that I can, should the worst come to pass, get through it on my own.

Lets hope I never have to face trials as upsetting alone again, and with strides I made this last year, I believe it can be a reality. Probably as a direct result of the heart-break that started year 24, I end it with more friendships than I’d ever had.

As I learned to fend for myself, I also learned how to breakout of a protective shell that had kept me isolated since birth. Fragments of that shell still exist. Nobody said finding yourself was easy. Maybe I’m late to the party, but I know of many who reach middle-age never getting there.

Some of the highlights: I took a risk, and joined a campaign as a senior member of the staff, taking on huge amounts of responsibility, and getting less sleep than I’d ever had. I want to thank Rick for taking such a huge chance on me. Aaron, Demic and Betsy for being the best co-workers anyone could ask for, and Kathy for being so accommodating of our demands of her husband and family.

Finally picking up and moving away from Eugene after years of saying I’d get to it. I may have only ventured 60 miles North, and visited home nearly every weekend, but it was a step that was a long-time coming.

Living with two of the greatest people on Earth, Matt and Joanie, observing a young married couple and finding my faith again in the possibilities of love. You two will have a front seat at my wedding, whenever it is and with whomever it’s with, because of you, I have hope again.

It’s midnight now, according to my legal documents I’m now 25. Biologically, 25 doesn’t occur until 10:13 tonight, but legally is good enough for me, so with that, I bid farewell to 24.

Here’s to 25 being the best year of my life!

I’ve tried blogging in various forms. Every time and by every measure, I’ve failed.

I also have used every excuse in the book: I’m too busy, I don’t have anything to say, I’m not enough of an expert to create a successful blog, etc.

The truth is, I’m not a blogger: I’m a writer. And, I’m not an expert: I’m a generalist.

Everyone has a voice in this web 2.0 world between their Facebook profiles, Twitter accounts and blogs. That’s fine. I wouldn’t have a voice without those tools either. But, I have a different voice, one that has become more and more unique as the years roll by: that of a general interest writer.

As the tools for publication became more available, the world has shifted from general information to a fragmentation of niche subjects. No longer do people subscribe to or read general interest magazines. Instead of reading Newsweek for their political news, they now read The New Republic if they’re liberal or National Review if they’re conservative. Or even more accurately in this post-print world: Huffington Post and Drudge Report. The same could be said for every fragment within every interest.

In general, people are no longer interested in general interest. They want specifics tailored exactly to their interests; and in the world we now live, it’s available to them, no matter how obscure.

It was in this world I tried to fit in. Tried, and failed.

While I’d consider myself knowledgeable in any number of subjects, there’s not one I would call myself an expert. And to be a successful blogger, the number one rule is to stick to a common subject of which you are an expert. My writings are all over the map. One day I’ll post on some national political issue, the next I’ll have my predictions for the Major League Baseball season and the post after that will feature a local band I enjoy.

I’m neither national, nor local, neither focused, nor expert. The result is a catastrophic blogging failure.

And that is why I no longer post the way I once did, or tried to do. I know I’m not a blogger at heart, and that was discouraging, even to the point of disbelieving in my ability to write.

A turning point in that mindset came a couple weeks ago, however, when by chance I picked up a book while browsing at Borders. That book was Writing Places by William Zinsser, a memoir of a writer and professor that personally hit home. He was the college professor I never had. I also had a conversation with a stranger, who knew of my writing, and said that I was able to portray an event with great clarity, which gave me a confidence boost unlike any other in my lifetime.

Zinsser too, is a generalist. Only, he was lucky enough to come up in a generation that still desired his talent, though he lived through a period where several major national general interest publications ceased to exist, and even left the world of writing to pursue teaching, partly because of the lack of publications for a man of his talent to sell his work to.

What it all comes down to is: is it better to be great at one thing, or good at several? For me, I choose the later. It may be career suicide, but I have a belief that there’s still a deep need and a desire for general interest writing.

And hey, if it is career suicide, I’ll have all the more to write about from my experience.

Today she’s out of my life forever.
I’ve said it before; I can think of at least two more times it may be said.

I saved a dog today.
I hit a dog that day.

It seems to be poetic justice: The two dogs that is.
Has a joyous and painful chapter of my life finally been closed?

Who knows where we’d be had I never hit that dog.
Who knows where I’ll go now that I’ve saved another.

Every relationship needs a catalyst: ours was the tragic death of a dog.

We met a few weeks earlier. It was a cold January day in a building that resembled a jail more than a college. I sat in the back of the classroom, in a corner which would come to be known as “conservative row,” in an otherwise liberal group of students taking a class on American Government. She walked in, all bundled in her jacket, scarf and knit cap; all that was visible was her gorgeous face. I later learned she had just returned from a winter-break trip to Ecuador making that particular Oregon cold-spell that much more extreme.

We didn’t speak that first day, in fact it may have been at least a week before I got the courage to introduce myself.

True to a habit I developed several years earlier in an effort to win the affection of girls, I discovered the quickest and easiest way to spend time with her: Join her as an intern with the Oregon Legislature. Prior to knowing her involvement with the internship, I had given it little thought, upon hearing her discussing it with our professor there would be no stopping my desire to work long hours for no pay. We began carpooling together, and a friendship ensued, but as for me, I was falling in love.

We were driving through a small, out-of-the-way town when the incident occurred. We had just dropped off a mutual friend at a home where they would be safe. Our friend was in a bad relationship, and needed a place to go. One of their professors stepped up to the plate, but lived miles from town. On the return trip, near-midnight, while driving her car a dog jetted across the curvy two-lane highway. With nothing but headlights to pierce the darkness, my reaction was too little too late.

I had never so-much as hit a squirrel, let alone a dog, especially a dog. After several minutes sitting and crying over what had occurred, both of us being huge animal lovers, she helped me regain my composure and we returned to the scene. The dog was gone. We searched for the dog, but found no sign other than the skid-marks and blood on the road. She tried to assure me the dog was fine, but I know better. A direct hit going 65-miles-an-hour and a missing dog would only mean it wouldn’t get the medical attention it needed to have even a small chance at survival.

We returned to my home, completely distraught, and at some point that night sympathy turned into affection. Not many days later we began dating. Three years we dated. They were some of the most joyous and most painful times of my life. I had my first love.

The relationship wasn’t unlike any other serious relationship that lasts three years. We had our ups and our downs. We were in love.

Nearly a year ago, she broke my heart. She’d been asked on a date, and instead of saying “no, I’m in a relationship,” she said yes, and then said goodbye to me, sitting in a busy campus Starbucks during dead week. That was the last I saw her.

Today, she flew to Boston where she’ll live with the man who asked her out. I’ve lost her again, she’s out of my life forever.

While driving home from the grocery store this afternoon, distracted by thoughts of her, a dog was wandering in the turn lane of a busy road. The same turn lane required for me to use to go home. At the literal last second, I was able to stop. I picked up the small dog, placed him in my car and took him home. A few minutes later I saw the symbolism.

I never had closure. I was never given the opportunity, and in the last year many things have distracted me from being able to deal with the emotions and thoughts one must when the loss of love occurs. Today of all days, the day she is gone forever, in some way maybe the saving of a dog symbolizes the closure I needed.

________________________________________________________________

And if that wasn’t enough, my evening ended with this scene from How I Met Your Mother. (I apologize for the bad dubbing, but the audio is more important than the visual).