The New York Times Review of Books must have read my mind.

Or, at least one of the writers featured in the  Review's online features and I think alike. That would be Emma Donoghue, the author of  Room.

We both have resolved in the coming year to complete the same resolution: reading all of the books we have stacked in our various dwellings for the purpose of "Read before death."

I wish Emma the best of luck.

I admit, I've been cheating, having started earlier this soon-to-be-past year by going through my bookshelves, culling all those I haven't read or can't remember reading, and placing said volumes on one of my sunroom's window sills in alphabetical order.

I have thus far made it through one and a half. 

Those would be The Niebelung Saga and The Life of Thomas More by Peter Ackroyd. 

I made it through the blood and guts of Kriemhild's war of wrath.

I could not make it through More's subsuming his lusts in scholarship in Ackroyd's tome. That will shortly join various Nora Roberts' books on Paperbackswap.com in order to hopefully leave my shelves.

By my count there are 70 books currently in my apartment that I have yet to touch.

Those tomes include The Disappearing Spoon, Blue Highways, and The Awakening amongst other volumes of varied topics.

Not exactly a task I look forward to. In times of need, I will happily thumb through the same books I've already read dozens of times, dog-eared pages bending one step closer to total surrender.

But, I must press on. I need to return to the militant self-discipline that led me to develop both a full life and stress condition in college.

As I spent the evening eating peanut butter crunch cookies, watching episodes of Psych and drawing charcoal portraits of the basset hound snoring on his lux new dog bed, that return will be a long time coming.

Forgive me, I'm kind of a lazy ass.

Among the other (semi) writer resolutions I have made for 2011, they are:

1) To write one hour each day for the pleasure of doing so. That 193 page NANOWRIMO novel won't finish itself. Nor will the half-written adaptation of "The Tale of Forty Thieves" or epic story of a fat girl in a fairy tale kingdom bent on perfection.

2) To abstain from Facebook stalking for the purpose of making self feel inferior to various college class mates, ex-friends and generally anyone who posts great pictures from world travels.

3) To do something cultural each week in order to nourish a currently starving soul. This must involve leaving apartment. (Basset hound looks dubious before returning to snoring)

4) To use all gift cards. Finding $60 in I-Tunes gift cards in an ornament box this year was ridiculous.

5) Walk the dog more often. Also, get increasingly heavy butt out to exercise. (Who doesn't have this one going in the Supersized US of A?)

6) Reorganize kitchen cabinets.

7) Install Rosetta Stone successfully on computer in order to brush up on Danish - and perhaps move beyond a three year-old speaking level

8) Visit the Scott Joplin House. It's five minutes away for crying out loud. Same goes for the Eugene Field House

9) Stop emotional eating. Step away from the cake. And pizza. And Gouda slices.

And, as mentioned above, reading my Before Death books.

Because, any writer who doesn't read is far more talented than I am. My creative life just isn't that in tune with the universal muse.

Perhaps next year I'll have to add trying to publish to my list. The closest I've ever been to that Holy Grail - outside of the newspaper realm - was a college literary magazine a friend started. 

But the years since that have been dry and distracted.

And you have to write before you can publish. It's not exactly a chicken or egg scenario there.

Perhaps my resolutions aren't as interesting or sophisticated as those found in the Review's list.

But they'll give me something to do and something to amuse the dog.

And I have to think, what will all you other writers do?