More Adventures in Method Writing (or, About That Time I Fell Off My Bike Due to Black Ice)

thermometer

My right knee was covered in road rash.  My left thigh is still sporting a huge, multi-hued bruise.

(When a bruise actually shows up on a black person, you know it must be bad.)

Anyone who’s read my blog for while knows that I ride my bicycle a lot.

I’m a cycle-commuter – I ride 8km roundtrip to work every day, as well as on various errands and social outings in and around Vancouver, where I live.  With the proper outer layers, Vancouver weather is rideable 95% of the year.

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All Stories End

dad

It’s so easy to lose oneself in a story.

We’ve all been there: the plan to read a little before bed keeps you up turning pages half the night.

You sink your social life for days or weeks in a row spending every free moment on successive volumes (or episodes) of a book (or TV) series.

I have a friend who gets so wrapped up in her reading, she does so while brushing her teeth.

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My Deserted Island Albums for Leaving 2016 Behind

deserted-island

Some dayssome years – retreating to a deserted island sounds like a mighty fine proposition.

Of course, it would have to be a tropical island.  Being one of those people who is always cold, spending a year on an island in the Arctic – or worse, the Antarctic – would create a whole new set of problems.

I’ve been snow camping before during my great outdoorsy days, but never in -34°C (-29°F).

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It’s Easy to Be Outraged on the Internet. It’s Much Harder to Be an Upstander IRL.

helping-hand

Like many people all over both North America and the world, I followed the live results of the US election on November 8.

Because I don’t own a TV, I attempted to stream the coverage on my laptop.  Yet, because so many North Americans and people from around the world were also watching, the stream timed out every minute or so, in need of constant refreshing.

It was in this way, along with commentary from a battery-operated radio and the #ElectionNight hashtag on Twitter, that the end result eventually – astoundingly, at least to me – became clear.

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On the Theory of Lost Things (or, How to Find Your Missing Sh*t)

lost-items

The only thing I ever lose is my cool.

This is not just a clever turn of phrase.  My impatience is probably my worst personality trait – the one with the greatest effect on how I relate to the world around me, and how the world relates back as a result.  But all that is a story for another blog post.

For this post, I’m instead talking about lost material items.

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Life, Interrupted / This is Living

Hospital sign

A lot of writers and other creative types believe they’d have more time for their art if life were less hectic and prone to interruptions.

They are probably right about that.  I should know; over the years, I’ve rearranged my entire lifestyle to be as conducive to my writing as possible.

I’ve excised almost all extraneous disruptions, I schedule my days and weeks to within an inch of my life, and go to great efforts to minimize personal drama of the sort that annoys and hinders far more than it excites and inspires.

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