Today was the coldest day this winter in our town. When I went out for the long run—22 km—it was -20 C. Since I check the weather channel before each run, I dressed for the cold: warm(er) tights and three layers under the jacket, plus balaclava on the head, to keep the face warm. That was the problem—I couldn't breathe through it. My breath was freezing on the fabric; ice pulled the balaclava down from my face. I kept pulling it up, it kept sticking to my lips every time I try to breathe in, then I'd pull it away from the lips and the ice would pull it down—it was an exhausting experience.
The breath and tears were also freezing on my eyelashes. When I tried to wipe it away with my gloved fingers, it scratched the skin on the eyelids.
A Mars bar froze in my pocket and became a sort of chocolate-bar-ice-cream, which I had to melt in mouth before chewing. The only positive thing was that the new water-belt worked as it was supposed to and didn't bounce at every step. I kept it under the jacket and Gatorade didn't freeze. Also, iPhone's GPS worked like a charm, giving me audio updates every kilometer through the headphones. All in all, minor inconveniences on the road to Boston marathon.
Saturday, January 30, 2010
Writing class is over
My writing school is over. Six weeks flew by. I was enthusiastic at first, but as the weeks dragged on, the enthusiasm deflated. Mostly because I find one lesson a week too little for the cost of the course. It was nice to have the assignment checked by the teacher, who is also a published author. She marked the things she thought I need to change and gave me the overall appraisal of it, but there was no going back and forth and have her look at the corrected version. That was disappointing.
The good thing is - the course made me write. Some days it was a late night typing, trying to extract words from my weary brain, but meeting the deadline made me write. Now, when the deadlines are no more, I wonder how to keep it up. Maybe joining a writers' club, or trying some story-writing contests. There's also the training for Boston which wears me out. It would be easier if the day had, say, six more hours - a 30-hour days to fit in all I want to do.
The good thing is - the course made me write. Some days it was a late night typing, trying to extract words from my weary brain, but meeting the deadline made me write. Now, when the deadlines are no more, I wonder how to keep it up. Maybe joining a writers' club, or trying some story-writing contests. There's also the training for Boston which wears me out. It would be easier if the day had, say, six more hours - a 30-hour days to fit in all I want to do.
Thursday, January 28, 2010
"The Strain", a novel
by Giullermo del Toro and Chuck Hogan
Had I known this was only the first part of a trilogy, I probably wouldn't have bothered starting this book, at least until all three parts are written. Not knowing that, and having read some very positive reviews, I dived into it.
The Strain is a vampire novel. Now, if you've finished rolling your eyes and before you click away, let me quickly tell you that it's not the soapy, new-era-vampire kind of a story, where the vampire is young and cool and good looking and the main female character falls in love with him. No, it's a darker story, based on an ancient legend from Romania (though not Transylvania) of a beast that sucks blood and kills people for food and, sometimes, fun. Actually, we are introduced, although only in passing, to a story in which six such ancient creatures divide the world among them-three remaining in the old world of Eurasia, and three somewhere in North America. Alas, there's a seventh, rogue bloodsucker, who stayed in Europe, and during the World War 2 feasted in concentration camps. The number seven is the one who usually disturbs the balance of power and truce between the two trios.
The story starts with the landing of a plane on JFK airport in New York. Shortly after landing, all contacts are lost with the aircraft and the emergency crew is sent to examine the situation. The post-9/11 procedure is complicated, but eventually the crew enters the plane to find everybody aboard dead. The government's chief epidemiologist is called and he discovers that there are four survivors.
At the same time an old Jew, the owner of a pawn shop, reminisces about his days in concentration camp in Poland where he met Strigoi the vampire. He was only a boy then, but somehow survived. Now, he is an old man and the only one who guesses what happened to the passengers and the crew of the airplane. He is quintessential mr. good guy, a little weird and old fashioned, but honest and just.
To set the stage, there's one more important detail to know: vampires can't cross big bodies of water (rivers, lakes, oceans, etc.) on their own. To do so, they must be helped by humans. Which, of course, is a curtain call for mr. bad guy - a shadowy millionaire who has survived most of his life thanks to dialysis machine and who is tired of dying without expiring, so he decided to help himself becoming immortal by hiring Strigoi. Of course, Strigoi is the ancient vampire number seven, the one who's meant to screw up with the other six.
Okay, so far so good. The dead plane passengers wake up, suck the blood from their families, turning half of Manhattan into a vampire party. The old Jew teams up with the epidemiologist and together they fight what the doctor calls "the virus". And, naturally, the bad millionaire is pulling strings and throwing obstacles at our brave world-saving team.
That's it in a nutshell. I have to point out a few neat details which make this vampire story quite unique: your old vampires don't grow fangs and go about masked as bats. Their transformation is explained so well, it seems almost medically possible. There's an organism, transmitted by the plasma of the bitten ones, which feeds on the blood of the living. It destroys all the organs of the body, taking over as the only living force which keeps the body moving as an empty vessel, therefore there's no need for sleep, or brain-controlled functions. As for the bloodsucking, there's a stinger which grows deep in the man's throat. It's attached to the trachea (the windpipe). The trachea gets detached from the bronchial tubes, and shoots out from vampire's mouth with the stinger on its end. It can extend to about 6 feet long, which is a fair reach for any vampire.
Since the story is set at the modern time, no holy water or garlic can harm the vampires. Disappointingly though, they are still slain by silver weapons and burnt by the sunlight. Ah, well, some things never change.
Guillermo del Toro, a co-author with Chuck Hogan, is a movie director, and the story develops like in a movie-the scenes are well described, vivid and believable. Although the whole vampire concept brings nothing new, the physiological explanation of their bloodsucking ways is innovative and deserves attention, and so does the crisis set in terrorist-weary America. While I can't say I'll rush to read the two following parts, The Strain kept me entertained. (3/5)
Had I known this was only the first part of a trilogy, I probably wouldn't have bothered starting this book, at least until all three parts are written. Not knowing that, and having read some very positive reviews, I dived into it.The Strain is a vampire novel. Now, if you've finished rolling your eyes and before you click away, let me quickly tell you that it's not the soapy, new-era-vampire kind of a story, where the vampire is young and cool and good looking and the main female character falls in love with him. No, it's a darker story, based on an ancient legend from Romania (though not Transylvania) of a beast that sucks blood and kills people for food and, sometimes, fun. Actually, we are introduced, although only in passing, to a story in which six such ancient creatures divide the world among them-three remaining in the old world of Eurasia, and three somewhere in North America. Alas, there's a seventh, rogue bloodsucker, who stayed in Europe, and during the World War 2 feasted in concentration camps. The number seven is the one who usually disturbs the balance of power and truce between the two trios.
The story starts with the landing of a plane on JFK airport in New York. Shortly after landing, all contacts are lost with the aircraft and the emergency crew is sent to examine the situation. The post-9/11 procedure is complicated, but eventually the crew enters the plane to find everybody aboard dead. The government's chief epidemiologist is called and he discovers that there are four survivors.
At the same time an old Jew, the owner of a pawn shop, reminisces about his days in concentration camp in Poland where he met Strigoi the vampire. He was only a boy then, but somehow survived. Now, he is an old man and the only one who guesses what happened to the passengers and the crew of the airplane. He is quintessential mr. good guy, a little weird and old fashioned, but honest and just.
To set the stage, there's one more important detail to know: vampires can't cross big bodies of water (rivers, lakes, oceans, etc.) on their own. To do so, they must be helped by humans. Which, of course, is a curtain call for mr. bad guy - a shadowy millionaire who has survived most of his life thanks to dialysis machine and who is tired of dying without expiring, so he decided to help himself becoming immortal by hiring Strigoi. Of course, Strigoi is the ancient vampire number seven, the one who's meant to screw up with the other six.
Okay, so far so good. The dead plane passengers wake up, suck the blood from their families, turning half of Manhattan into a vampire party. The old Jew teams up with the epidemiologist and together they fight what the doctor calls "the virus". And, naturally, the bad millionaire is pulling strings and throwing obstacles at our brave world-saving team.
That's it in a nutshell. I have to point out a few neat details which make this vampire story quite unique: your old vampires don't grow fangs and go about masked as bats. Their transformation is explained so well, it seems almost medically possible. There's an organism, transmitted by the plasma of the bitten ones, which feeds on the blood of the living. It destroys all the organs of the body, taking over as the only living force which keeps the body moving as an empty vessel, therefore there's no need for sleep, or brain-controlled functions. As for the bloodsucking, there's a stinger which grows deep in the man's throat. It's attached to the trachea (the windpipe). The trachea gets detached from the bronchial tubes, and shoots out from vampire's mouth with the stinger on its end. It can extend to about 6 feet long, which is a fair reach for any vampire.
Since the story is set at the modern time, no holy water or garlic can harm the vampires. Disappointingly though, they are still slain by silver weapons and burnt by the sunlight. Ah, well, some things never change.
Guillermo del Toro, a co-author with Chuck Hogan, is a movie director, and the story develops like in a movie-the scenes are well described, vivid and believable. Although the whole vampire concept brings nothing new, the physiological explanation of their bloodsucking ways is innovative and deserves attention, and so does the crisis set in terrorist-weary America. While I can't say I'll rush to read the two following parts, The Strain kept me entertained. (3/5)
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Idiot bunny
Apparently, rabbits don't hibernate!
Coming home tonight, the car lights fell on another long-eared uninvited visitor in our backyard. Meg kicked me out of the car to chase the bugger away. When I came to the closed-off corner where he disappeared (for some reason I am almost certain it was a male rabbit), he wasn't there. The only place where he could have hidden was under the barbecue, so I banged on it and, of course, the bunny (Meg insists on calling it bunny, I prefer rabbit, for the lack of more derogatory term) made a few lazy hops and stopped, staring at me with one beady reddish eye. It was infuriating, this total lack of fear, not to mention respect. I know, I know—what does a rabbit know about private property? I ran after him, and he made a few more hops in front of the car, which Meg still kept running in the driveway, then turned into the garage and gave me another mocking stare. Now, who's supposed to stare down whom in my own garage?! I came at him with a roar to wake the neighborhood, and he did the basketball dodge—fake to the right, then hop to the left. This time I kicked at him (and missed, for you animal activists reading this), and that finally made him run. But, only until he made it out of the area lit by the garage light. There he stopped in the dark, twitching his ears at me. I don't know if that is equivalent to blowing me a raspberry in bunny-talk?
If you are tired reading for so long about me chasing the rabbit, imagine how tiring it was for me, to sprint at the beast so many times, only to make it hop to the alley. Since we don't have the backyard fenced-off completely, after I finally made the rabbit (lazily) hop away, we figured it'll come back. It seemed that he found the corner behind the barbecue to be an ideal shelter from the wind. We ended up taking the bicycles to the basement to make room for the bbq in the garage. All we need is a coyote to sniff a rabbit and come to our yard for lunch with a family. Yes, we do have coyotes too in the area. We haven't seen any this winter, but last winter we saw them a few times strolling down the snow covered sidewalks. Scary!
None of that would happen if the rabbits hibernated in the winter.
Coming home tonight, the car lights fell on another long-eared uninvited visitor in our backyard. Meg kicked me out of the car to chase the bugger away. When I came to the closed-off corner where he disappeared (for some reason I am almost certain it was a male rabbit), he wasn't there. The only place where he could have hidden was under the barbecue, so I banged on it and, of course, the bunny (Meg insists on calling it bunny, I prefer rabbit, for the lack of more derogatory term) made a few lazy hops and stopped, staring at me with one beady reddish eye. It was infuriating, this total lack of fear, not to mention respect. I know, I know—what does a rabbit know about private property? I ran after him, and he made a few more hops in front of the car, which Meg still kept running in the driveway, then turned into the garage and gave me another mocking stare. Now, who's supposed to stare down whom in my own garage?! I came at him with a roar to wake the neighborhood, and he did the basketball dodge—fake to the right, then hop to the left. This time I kicked at him (and missed, for you animal activists reading this), and that finally made him run. But, only until he made it out of the area lit by the garage light. There he stopped in the dark, twitching his ears at me. I don't know if that is equivalent to blowing me a raspberry in bunny-talk?
If you are tired reading for so long about me chasing the rabbit, imagine how tiring it was for me, to sprint at the beast so many times, only to make it hop to the alley. Since we don't have the backyard fenced-off completely, after I finally made the rabbit (lazily) hop away, we figured it'll come back. It seemed that he found the corner behind the barbecue to be an ideal shelter from the wind. We ended up taking the bicycles to the basement to make room for the bbq in the garage. All we need is a coyote to sniff a rabbit and come to our yard for lunch with a family. Yes, we do have coyotes too in the area. We haven't seen any this winter, but last winter we saw them a few times strolling down the snow covered sidewalks. Scary!
None of that would happen if the rabbits hibernated in the winter.
Haiti Earthquake
Ah, it's been a while since I blogged. I missed it, but simply couldn't do it: I was trapped between my writing classes, running and work. In the meantime there was a horrific earthquake in Haiti, which kept us all glued to the news - about 200,000 dead and 1 million homeless in the quake magnitude 7 on Richter scale.
I remember working at the photo desk on the morning of the Asian tsunami on Dec 26, 2004 and being completely overwhelmed by the images of devastation and death. It seemed like the dead were everywhere, in every corner of every picture. Even being half a planet away wasn't far enough to hide from the horror of the brute force of nature.
On January 12 this year it was deja vu - pictures of the dead bodies piled on the streets, in parks and on the courtyards of crumbling public buildings. Only, now it was in Haiti, not in the Indian ocean area. It is strange how Mother Nature always seem to strike the poorest, the most vulnerable, as if it wants to clear the misery from its bosom. Or, maybe under such a force even the rich are reduced to paupers. Rich or poor, people of Haiti look the same now, hungry, thirsty, desperate, covered with dust, homeless and scared to death. The poorest nation on this part of the planet just got much poorer.
On the positive note, the international aid effort was amazing - so quick and efficient, it clogged the airport in Port au Prince. It took two days to organize things. There were more planes coming in than there was space to land and unload them. Some aid planes had to turn back and wait until the runway was clear. Yet, with all the speed and might of international help, food and water reached only 1/8 of the population of the capital Port au Prince.
As always, pictures of the children cut the deepest. Not the crying little ones, but the silent, bandaged kids silently staring from the picture. The unvoiced pain in their eyes penetrates straight to the heart. Meg and I made a small donation through the text message charity donation service, set up by our cell phone provider.
I remember working at the photo desk on the morning of the Asian tsunami on Dec 26, 2004 and being completely overwhelmed by the images of devastation and death. It seemed like the dead were everywhere, in every corner of every picture. Even being half a planet away wasn't far enough to hide from the horror of the brute force of nature.
On January 12 this year it was deja vu - pictures of the dead bodies piled on the streets, in parks and on the courtyards of crumbling public buildings. Only, now it was in Haiti, not in the Indian ocean area. It is strange how Mother Nature always seem to strike the poorest, the most vulnerable, as if it wants to clear the misery from its bosom. Or, maybe under such a force even the rich are reduced to paupers. Rich or poor, people of Haiti look the same now, hungry, thirsty, desperate, covered with dust, homeless and scared to death. The poorest nation on this part of the planet just got much poorer.
On the positive note, the international aid effort was amazing - so quick and efficient, it clogged the airport in Port au Prince. It took two days to organize things. There were more planes coming in than there was space to land and unload them. Some aid planes had to turn back and wait until the runway was clear. Yet, with all the speed and might of international help, food and water reached only 1/8 of the population of the capital Port au Prince.
As always, pictures of the children cut the deepest. Not the crying little ones, but the silent, bandaged kids silently staring from the picture. The unvoiced pain in their eyes penetrates straight to the heart. Meg and I made a small donation through the text message charity donation service, set up by our cell phone provider.
Sunday, January 17, 2010
"Wolf Hall", a novel
by Hilary Mantel
2009 Booker prize winner
Historical fiction, a story about Thomas Cromwell, a blacksmith son, who raised from a commoner to be an adviser for the king Henry VIII. In the opening of the story he sails away from England and the story at the age of fifteen and returns in the next chapter as a lawyer in his forties. Although snippets of the time he spent abroad are dusted throughout the book, it is never clear how, when and where he became a lawyer. At first a clerk for the cardinal Wosley, he raises over the nobles of Henry's court to become king's right hand after Wosley falls from grace and subsequent death. He is quick-witted, sharp-tongued and skillfully plays through the politics of the time, king's marriage to Anne Boleyn, split with the Papal Roman-Catholic church and many intrigues of the court.
Although I'm a big fan of historical fiction, and plunged into Wolf Hall with great expectation, I am left disappointed. I could never quite get into the book, mostly because of the voice the author used. The book is written in third person from Cromwell's point of view. Unfortunately, Cromwell is always a he, even in the sentences when some other male character already claimed that pronoun, which makes for a very confusing read and forces the reader to re-read the paragraph few times in order to understand which part of action is attributed to Cromwell and which part to that other male character. Here's the perfect example:
His hand beats, weakly, at the clean tabletop; and when he leaves him, 'Martin, go in, give him some wine' - he is still crying out, shuddering, beating the table.
The person beating the table is Thomas More, the person leaving is Cromwell, both jammed together in this clumsy sentence. This style is persistent through 650 pages of arduous reading. How was it possible that the book was even nominated, let alone won the Booker prize, is beyond me! (2/5)
2009 Booker prize winner
Historical fiction, a story about Thomas Cromwell, a blacksmith son, who raised from a commoner to be an adviser for the king Henry VIII. In the opening of the story he sails away from England and the story at the age of fifteen and returns in the next chapter as a lawyer in his forties. Although snippets of the time he spent abroad are dusted throughout the book, it is never clear how, when and where he became a lawyer. At first a clerk for the cardinal Wosley, he raises over the nobles of Henry's court to become king's right hand after Wosley falls from grace and subsequent death. He is quick-witted, sharp-tongued and skillfully plays through the politics of the time, king's marriage to Anne Boleyn, split with the Papal Roman-Catholic church and many intrigues of the court.Although I'm a big fan of historical fiction, and plunged into Wolf Hall with great expectation, I am left disappointed. I could never quite get into the book, mostly because of the voice the author used. The book is written in third person from Cromwell's point of view. Unfortunately, Cromwell is always a he, even in the sentences when some other male character already claimed that pronoun, which makes for a very confusing read and forces the reader to re-read the paragraph few times in order to understand which part of action is attributed to Cromwell and which part to that other male character. Here's the perfect example:
His hand beats, weakly, at the clean tabletop; and when he leaves him, 'Martin, go in, give him some wine' - he is still crying out, shuddering, beating the table.
The person beating the table is Thomas More, the person leaving is Cromwell, both jammed together in this clumsy sentence. This style is persistent through 650 pages of arduous reading. How was it possible that the book was even nominated, let alone won the Booker prize, is beyond me! (2/5)
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Back to work
Second day at work after holidays. Funny, how it all seems less serious and less stressful when you're fresh from vacation. Although, I don't doubt for a second I'll very soon get back to the old grim reality.
My newly grown beard didn't provoke as many comments as I thought it would. My coworkers are either difficult to impress, or they may be used to my little oddities. At least Meg likes my facial hair, for now. And I'm lazy to shave anyway. Not to mention it's warmer to run with the facial fur on.
Yesterday I started training for the Boston marathon, which unfortunately involves waking up at 4:45 AM and going for runs that will get longer and longer. Nights are still pretty cold, average around -10 C. If nothing else, chill wakes me up the moment I step outside. Still, I feel strangely tired. Blaming slippery icy and snowy roads for it!
The latest geekiness of mine is the GPS running application for the iPhone. It's so much more accurate than the Nike+ shoe sensor I used for over two years, that I wonder how could I ever trust the pedometer. All I need to do now is push the button on the iPhone and it tracks my speed, gives me splits per kilometer and maps my run with eery accuracy. It will be a nice thing to have after Boston - the map with my marathon route and time. The more I think about the race, the more excited I am, although it's still 14 long weeks away.
My newly grown beard didn't provoke as many comments as I thought it would. My coworkers are either difficult to impress, or they may be used to my little oddities. At least Meg likes my facial hair, for now. And I'm lazy to shave anyway. Not to mention it's warmer to run with the facial fur on.
Yesterday I started training for the Boston marathon, which unfortunately involves waking up at 4:45 AM and going for runs that will get longer and longer. Nights are still pretty cold, average around -10 C. If nothing else, chill wakes me up the moment I step outside. Still, I feel strangely tired. Blaming slippery icy and snowy roads for it!
The latest geekiness of mine is the GPS running application for the iPhone. It's so much more accurate than the Nike+ shoe sensor I used for over two years, that I wonder how could I ever trust the pedometer. All I need to do now is push the button on the iPhone and it tracks my speed, gives me splits per kilometer and maps my run with eery accuracy. It will be a nice thing to have after Boston - the map with my marathon route and time. The more I think about the race, the more excited I am, although it's still 14 long weeks away.
Friday, January 8, 2010
The week at Moonstone
The second week of vacation was mostly about skiing. We went to Moonstone (north of Barrie, Ontario) on Monday and skied our hearts out. Somehow everything seemed better this year - the snow was drier, the slopes better prepared and we were a bit more experienced. Unfortunately, Meg pulled something in her knee on Monday, which forced us to stay home on Tuesday, but we were back on slopes on Wednesday, enjoying it. Meg is improving so rapidly, it's nice to watch. She started zooming down the hill so fast, I had troubles keeping up. On Thursday, we had a gorgeous sunny day and everything could have been ideal if it weren't for several busloads of snowboarders, all teenagers. They conquered the slopes for most of the day and it was a little scary skiing between them. A local elderly woman who shared a lift with us said: "Look at them, they look like bugs." And sure they did, in their brightly colored ski suits, helmets and legs attached to the equally colorful boards. Also, they were sitting on the snow in large groups - they did resemble a plague infesting the slopes.
There was supposed to be even more school kids today, so we decided to skip the skiing and stayed home. Besides, we did have more than 5 hours of skiing each day and our legs felt it. We're both walking on very sore legs today. My running obviously effects different muscles from those needed to pilot the skis. That would explain the muscle-ache.
There's only the weekend left and then - back to work! (sigh) Both Meg and I dread Monday. This two weeks away only showed us how much fun it could be if we didn't need to work. If only we could figure out how to pay the bills...
There was supposed to be even more school kids today, so we decided to skip the skiing and stayed home. Besides, we did have more than 5 hours of skiing each day and our legs felt it. We're both walking on very sore legs today. My running obviously effects different muscles from those needed to pilot the skis. That would explain the muscle-ache.
There's only the weekend left and then - back to work! (sigh) Both Meg and I dread Monday. This two weeks away only showed us how much fun it could be if we didn't need to work. If only we could figure out how to pay the bills...
Saturday, January 2, 2010
"Three Day Road", a novel
by Joseph Boyden
Although I don't like war stories, having seen enough of war myself, I slowly warmed up to Boyden's tale of two Canadian Cree Indians stuck in the muddy trenches of the Great War--WW1. Two childhood friends, Xavier and Elijah, both orphans, grew up with Xavier's aunt Niska, a medicine woman, who taught them to live "in the bushes" of Canadian north. They learned to hunt together and went to the war together. Because of their hunter's nature, they became a famous snipers duet participating in all the big battles Canadian troops fought in Belgium and France. The description of the life in muddy trenches and brutalities of the war is vivid and believable.
The story is told in two voices--through the aunt Niska, who picks up Xavier upon his return from the war, crippled and addicted to morphine. While she paddles her canoe with the two of them back north, she tells the story of her youth and Xavier's and Elijah's childhood.
Xavier's voice is the one who remembers and tells the story of two inseparable friends fighting in "white man's war". It describes horrors and madness of war and how it changed those who fought it. Both stories are told in turns, woven with mysticism of the native Indians' tradition. I really enjoyed it all through the unpredictable ending. (4 out of 5)
Although I don't like war stories, having seen enough of war myself, I slowly warmed up to Boyden's tale of two Canadian Cree Indians stuck in the muddy trenches of the Great War--WW1. Two childhood friends, Xavier and Elijah, both orphans, grew up with Xavier's aunt Niska, a medicine woman, who taught them to live "in the bushes" of Canadian north. They learned to hunt together and went to the war together. Because of their hunter's nature, they became a famous snipers duet participating in all the big battles Canadian troops fought in Belgium and France. The description of the life in muddy trenches and brutalities of the war is vivid and believable.The story is told in two voices--through the aunt Niska, who picks up Xavier upon his return from the war, crippled and addicted to morphine. While she paddles her canoe with the two of them back north, she tells the story of her youth and Xavier's and Elijah's childhood.
Xavier's voice is the one who remembers and tells the story of two inseparable friends fighting in "white man's war". It describes horrors and madness of war and how it changed those who fought it. Both stories are told in turns, woven with mysticism of the native Indians' tradition. I really enjoyed it all through the unpredictable ending. (4 out of 5)
Friday, January 1, 2010
The Year That Was
The first blog entry for 2010 - feeling giddy! We survived 2009, mostly unscathed. When I try to think of the most memorable things in the past year, the job insecurity tops the list. It was another nerve-racking year of uncertainty, bankruptcy protection and survival. I still have a job and I still don't know for how long. The company I work for still exist and still struggles with a huge debt to creditors who can shut us down at any point. But, as it is with all pain, this one dulled too, and I learned to take it a day at a time and deal with situation as it develops.
My particular branch of multimedia went from the profession everybody sought to the profession no one really wants. In a year I went from being a mini-celebrity in our newsroom to being a grumpy guy shoved in the corner out of sight and--our managers would hope--out of mind.
To pacify my stormy thoughts I read lots of books. If I had to pick the best one for the year, it would be a very close call between The Book Thief by Markus Zusak and The Gargoyle by Andrew Davidson, and I would have to settle for The Gargoyle, but just barely.
Of personal successes, I ran two full marathons and one half marathon, logged 3,155 km for the whole year and qualified for the famed Boston and New York marathons. These two I will run this year. I started a running podcast and blog, which is gaining popularity, slowly but surely.
I blogged a lot, and did some creative writing, but it again turned out to be more me talking about writing than actually doing it. Finally, I enrolled into online Creative Writing class, which is still going on and maybe, just maybe, it will give me confidence to finally finish at least some of the many stories I started and abandoned.
In all, I'm glad we saw the last of 2009 and am looking forward to tackle 2010. Let the fun begin!
My particular branch of multimedia went from the profession everybody sought to the profession no one really wants. In a year I went from being a mini-celebrity in our newsroom to being a grumpy guy shoved in the corner out of sight and--our managers would hope--out of mind.
To pacify my stormy thoughts I read lots of books. If I had to pick the best one for the year, it would be a very close call between The Book Thief by Markus Zusak and The Gargoyle by Andrew Davidson, and I would have to settle for The Gargoyle, but just barely.
Of personal successes, I ran two full marathons and one half marathon, logged 3,155 km for the whole year and qualified for the famed Boston and New York marathons. These two I will run this year. I started a running podcast and blog, which is gaining popularity, slowly but surely.
I blogged a lot, and did some creative writing, but it again turned out to be more me talking about writing than actually doing it. Finally, I enrolled into online Creative Writing class, which is still going on and maybe, just maybe, it will give me confidence to finally finish at least some of the many stories I started and abandoned.
In all, I'm glad we saw the last of 2009 and am looking forward to tackle 2010. Let the fun begin!
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