Alexandra Bogdanovic's Blog: That's life..., page 12
November 14, 2013
Enough is enough... or is it?
For some reason I can't set foot in the New York Public Library without thinking about Ghostbusters -- but that's aside from the point.
I was back at my favorite haunt last night, and even though the visit was unplanned, it was productive. In fact, I found and photocopied material from three more books detailing Yugoslav history. It took a couple of hours to find and copy everything I wanted, and as I look at the growing stack of research material on my desk I cringe when I think about how many trees were sacrificed for the cause.
To be honest, I'm starting to feel more than a little overwhelmed by this research project. The subject is dense, and it seems the more I find, the more questions I have and the more confused I get.
So I think it's time to stop gathering material and start sifting through what I've already found. I suppose I'll start making outlines and timelines and take it from there. In any case, the bottom line is, that until I not only understand the history of my father's homeland, but feel confident enough to write about it with some authority, I simply can't begin to think about character or plot development.
What about you? How do you go about doing research for your own books. Do you take a methodical approach or fly be the seat of your pants?
I'm eager to hear what you think.
Until next time, "That's life..."
I was back at my favorite haunt last night, and even though the visit was unplanned, it was productive. In fact, I found and photocopied material from three more books detailing Yugoslav history. It took a couple of hours to find and copy everything I wanted, and as I look at the growing stack of research material on my desk I cringe when I think about how many trees were sacrificed for the cause.
To be honest, I'm starting to feel more than a little overwhelmed by this research project. The subject is dense, and it seems the more I find, the more questions I have and the more confused I get.
So I think it's time to stop gathering material and start sifting through what I've already found. I suppose I'll start making outlines and timelines and take it from there. In any case, the bottom line is, that until I not only understand the history of my father's homeland, but feel confident enough to write about it with some authority, I simply can't begin to think about character or plot development.
What about you? How do you go about doing research for your own books. Do you take a methodical approach or fly be the seat of your pants?
I'm eager to hear what you think.
Until next time, "That's life..."
November 7, 2013
It's about time
So last week, I told you that I'd keep you apprised of how the research for my second book is going. This week, I can happily report that my second trip to the New York Public Library was just as productive as my first.
I found two more books on Yugoslav history and one that was just about Tito. While I am sure they will all be helpful, the one I am most excited about is called The Historical Dictionary of the Federal Republic of Yugoslavia by Zeljan Suster.
Published in 1999, Suster's book includes what is arguably the single most important resource for another author planning on setting a novel in another time and place -- a comprehensive timeline. Suster's chronology dates from the 5th century to 1999.
Most importantly to me, it provides valuable context and insight into some of the most critical times in my father's life. Here's a glimpse at what I found.
My dad was born in March 1922. Fifteen years later, Josip Broz (best known to the rest of the world as Tito) became general secretary of the Communist Party in Yugoslavia. World War II began when Germany invaded Poland just two years later, in 1939.
My dad was 18 when his country's government established diplomatic relations with the Soviet Union in 1940, and he had just turned 19 when Germany invaded Yugoslavia and captured Belgrade in 1941.
The war continued for four years. By the time it ended, my father's adventures were just beginning....
Until next time "That's life..."
I found two more books on Yugoslav history and one that was just about Tito. While I am sure they will all be helpful, the one I am most excited about is called The Historical Dictionary of the Federal Republic of Yugoslavia by Zeljan Suster.
Published in 1999, Suster's book includes what is arguably the single most important resource for another author planning on setting a novel in another time and place -- a comprehensive timeline. Suster's chronology dates from the 5th century to 1999.
Most importantly to me, it provides valuable context and insight into some of the most critical times in my father's life. Here's a glimpse at what I found.
My dad was born in March 1922. Fifteen years later, Josip Broz (best known to the rest of the world as Tito) became general secretary of the Communist Party in Yugoslavia. World War II began when Germany invaded Poland just two years later, in 1939.
My dad was 18 when his country's government established diplomatic relations with the Soviet Union in 1940, and he had just turned 19 when Germany invaded Yugoslavia and captured Belgrade in 1941.
The war continued for four years. By the time it ended, my father's adventures were just beginning....
Until next time "That's life..."
October 31, 2013
Now for the hard part
So now that I've been home for a couple of months, I'm getting serious about doing the research for my second book. Really serious. I mean it.
To that end, I spent a few hours at the New York Public Library yesterday. I went there to find some books about Yugoslav history, and while perusing the shelves in one of the third floor research rooms I hit the mother lode.
In three large tomes, I found valuable information about Yugoslav history spanning hundreds of years. I also found information about politics, government, culture and education.
To date, I've gotten plenty of information about communism, socialism, past and present ethnic conflicts from my family, but I'm hoping to gain some additional insight from the library books.
In coming weeks, I'll continue my legwork at the New York Public Library and elsewhere. I'll also begin synthesizing the information in notes and outlines.
From there, I'll probably turn my attention to character and plot development.
Once that's all done, I'll finally be to start on the first draft of the novel based on my father's life.
So for those of you who may be wondering when my next book will be coming out, I can't honestly say yet.
But to keep myself on track, I'll be providing you with weekly updates in my blog. That way, you'll get some insight into the writing process from start to finish.
I hope you enjoy it. It should be a fun ride!
Until next time, "That's life..."
To that end, I spent a few hours at the New York Public Library yesterday. I went there to find some books about Yugoslav history, and while perusing the shelves in one of the third floor research rooms I hit the mother lode.
In three large tomes, I found valuable information about Yugoslav history spanning hundreds of years. I also found information about politics, government, culture and education.
To date, I've gotten plenty of information about communism, socialism, past and present ethnic conflicts from my family, but I'm hoping to gain some additional insight from the library books.
In coming weeks, I'll continue my legwork at the New York Public Library and elsewhere. I'll also begin synthesizing the information in notes and outlines.
From there, I'll probably turn my attention to character and plot development.
Once that's all done, I'll finally be to start on the first draft of the novel based on my father's life.
So for those of you who may be wondering when my next book will be coming out, I can't honestly say yet.
But to keep myself on track, I'll be providing you with weekly updates in my blog. That way, you'll get some insight into the writing process from start to finish.
I hope you enjoy it. It should be a fun ride!
Until next time, "That's life..."
October 24, 2013
It's a cat's life
It's been a hectic few months to say the least.
When I haven't been traveling the world or taking weekend trips to Virginia, I've been busy marketing one book, doing research for my second, juggling freelance projects, volunteering, and looking for a full time job. Somehow I've also managed to find time for a healthy social life. I've been trying not to spend any time worrying about the country imploding, but I can't help it.
On the other hand, my cat doesn't have a care in the world. As long as he's got food, a clean litter box and a comfortable bed (mine), he's a happy boy.
Eli's day begins as soon as one of us wakes up. He demands his breakfast, uses the facilities and then rejoins me in bed or waits for me to play with him. After his morning workout, he finds a sunny spot and goes back to sleep. He gets up around 1 or 2 p.m., has a snack and comes to make sure I'm getting some work done. By 4 p.m., he starts demanding dinner, which is usually served by 5 p.m. After dinner he rests up before his nightly indoor hunting expeditions.
All in all he's got a great life. He rules the house with a velvet paw; his wish is my command. In other words, he's deeply loved and he's very well taken care of.
You know, I've often told family and friends, in my next life I want to come back as my own cat.
Until next time, "That's life..."
When I haven't been traveling the world or taking weekend trips to Virginia, I've been busy marketing one book, doing research for my second, juggling freelance projects, volunteering, and looking for a full time job. Somehow I've also managed to find time for a healthy social life. I've been trying not to spend any time worrying about the country imploding, but I can't help it.
On the other hand, my cat doesn't have a care in the world. As long as he's got food, a clean litter box and a comfortable bed (mine), he's a happy boy.
Eli's day begins as soon as one of us wakes up. He demands his breakfast, uses the facilities and then rejoins me in bed or waits for me to play with him. After his morning workout, he finds a sunny spot and goes back to sleep. He gets up around 1 or 2 p.m., has a snack and comes to make sure I'm getting some work done. By 4 p.m., he starts demanding dinner, which is usually served by 5 p.m. After dinner he rests up before his nightly indoor hunting expeditions.
All in all he's got a great life. He rules the house with a velvet paw; his wish is my command. In other words, he's deeply loved and he's very well taken care of.
You know, I've often told family and friends, in my next life I want to come back as my own cat.
Until next time, "That's life..."
October 21, 2013
Homecoming
Being a former police reporter and having lots of friends in law enforcement has its advantages. For one thing, you learn a lot about human stupidity.
No, I'm not talking about stupid cops (although there are thousands out there). I'm talking about your average, every day, run of the mill citizen.
You know, the person who brags about their intelligence and proves just how smart they are by doing something absolutely brilliant -- like posting all the details of their upcoming trip (including departure and return dates) on social media sites. Or leaving valuables in plain view when contractors are in the house. Or leaving their car unlocked and then complaining when their purse, wallet, camera and electronic devices are stolen.
If I had a dime for every news article or police blotter item I wrote about someone being victimized due to an utter lack of common sense, I'd be a multimillionaire.
Keeping all of that in mind, I didn't do a blog post last week. You see, I had absolutely positively no intention of letting anyone other than close friends and family know about my weekend trip to Virginia. But now that I'm back, I can say that I had an absolute blast.
I returned to Warrenton (where I lived for more than eight years) for the annual running of the International Gold Cup steeplechase races and to catch up with old friends (most of whom are cops). Because I was only there for two-and-a-half days, I didn't get a chance to see everyone who became my extended family when I lived in Fauquier County. And I didn't get a chance to spend as much time with the people I did see as I wanted to.
But when I walked into the convenience store across the street from the Great Meadow Field Events Center in The Plains on Saturday afternoon, I knew no matter how long I've been gone, or how infrequently I'm able to visit, the rural community approximately 40 miles southwest of Washington, D.C., will always have a special place in my heart.
Hey, honey. It's great to see you again! the clerk exclaimed. Welcome home!
Until next time, "That's life..."
No, I'm not talking about stupid cops (although there are thousands out there). I'm talking about your average, every day, run of the mill citizen.
You know, the person who brags about their intelligence and proves just how smart they are by doing something absolutely brilliant -- like posting all the details of their upcoming trip (including departure and return dates) on social media sites. Or leaving valuables in plain view when contractors are in the house. Or leaving their car unlocked and then complaining when their purse, wallet, camera and electronic devices are stolen.
If I had a dime for every news article or police blotter item I wrote about someone being victimized due to an utter lack of common sense, I'd be a multimillionaire.
Keeping all of that in mind, I didn't do a blog post last week. You see, I had absolutely positively no intention of letting anyone other than close friends and family know about my weekend trip to Virginia. But now that I'm back, I can say that I had an absolute blast.
I returned to Warrenton (where I lived for more than eight years) for the annual running of the International Gold Cup steeplechase races and to catch up with old friends (most of whom are cops). Because I was only there for two-and-a-half days, I didn't get a chance to see everyone who became my extended family when I lived in Fauquier County. And I didn't get a chance to spend as much time with the people I did see as I wanted to.
But when I walked into the convenience store across the street from the Great Meadow Field Events Center in The Plains on Saturday afternoon, I knew no matter how long I've been gone, or how infrequently I'm able to visit, the rural community approximately 40 miles southwest of Washington, D.C., will always have a special place in my heart.
Hey, honey. It's great to see you again! the clerk exclaimed. Welcome home!
Until next time, "That's life..."
October 10, 2013
Lost in translation (Part II)
A few weeks ago, I mentioned some of the challenges I faced while visiting my European relatives in predominantly non-English speaking countries.
As you know, the experience forced me to choose my words carefully, and renewed my appreciation for the nuances of the English language. It also resulted in some pure comedy.
It happened when the dinner conversation at my cousin's house in Belgrade turned to music. Since my cousin, her husband and daughter are all musicians. But I have to admit, I wasn't fully engaged in the discussion when Ana's husband asked me if I knew the name of an unusual Australian instrument and began describing it.
Oh, do you mean a kazoo? I asked, still distracted.
No, no, no. It's not a kazoo. Wait, I'll go get it, Darco said.
Ohhhh! I said, feeling like a complete idiot when he reappeared with a large, hand-carved wooden instrument a few minute later. It's a didgeridoo!
Then there was the case of the mysterious vegetable that we had at lunch one day.
What do you call this in English? asked my 16-year-old cousin Sophia.
I had no idea, but I ventured a guess. Perhaps it's a squash, but I don't know for sure...
The question was still bothering me the next day.
Maybe it was a cucumber, I said at breakfast.
Sophia quickly nixed that idea.
It is not a cucumber, she said. I know what a cucumber is!
With no other options, we turned to the Internet and punched the Serbian word for the mysterious vegetable into "Google Translate."
It turned out it was a squash.
Until next time, "That's life..."
As you know, the experience forced me to choose my words carefully, and renewed my appreciation for the nuances of the English language. It also resulted in some pure comedy.
It happened when the dinner conversation at my cousin's house in Belgrade turned to music. Since my cousin, her husband and daughter are all musicians. But I have to admit, I wasn't fully engaged in the discussion when Ana's husband asked me if I knew the name of an unusual Australian instrument and began describing it.
Oh, do you mean a kazoo? I asked, still distracted.
No, no, no. It's not a kazoo. Wait, I'll go get it, Darco said.
Ohhhh! I said, feeling like a complete idiot when he reappeared with a large, hand-carved wooden instrument a few minute later. It's a didgeridoo!
Then there was the case of the mysterious vegetable that we had at lunch one day.
What do you call this in English? asked my 16-year-old cousin Sophia.
I had no idea, but I ventured a guess. Perhaps it's a squash, but I don't know for sure...
The question was still bothering me the next day.
Maybe it was a cucumber, I said at breakfast.
Sophia quickly nixed that idea.
It is not a cucumber, she said. I know what a cucumber is!
With no other options, we turned to the Internet and punched the Serbian word for the mysterious vegetable into "Google Translate."
It turned out it was a squash.
Until next time, "That's life..."
October 7, 2013
So much for that
Did you miss me? Did you even realize I didn't post anything last week? Did you care?
For the first time since I started this blog five months ago, I decided not to write anything. I didn't want to write a word and frankly I didn't care about the repercussions. My decision partially stemmed from the fact that I'd run out of creative energy -- but mostly from the fact that I was really, really, really angry.
Fresh from a one-week stay in Serbia -- a country where the government frowned upon freedom of speech for years, I returned to the good 'ole U.S. of A to find our duly elected representatives embroiled in the petty bickering, mudslinging, muck raking and gridlock that ultimately resulted in the partial government shutdown the remains in effect.
I vented my own frustration about the Affordable Care Act or Obamacare in a poem. In it, I took a few pokes at the Left and a jab at the Right for good measure.
I sent it off to a few newspapers, hoping they'd run it as a letter to the editor. To date, no one has done so. The editors of one website said they liked it. It was funny -- and right on target, they said. But they didn't want to run it. It was too controversial they said. It might offend people... It was too risky.
Whatever happened to freedom of speech? I thought. This is the United States of America. It's not Serbia. It's not China, or North Korea, or Iraq or Iran or Afghanistan... I'm not screaming fire in a crowded theater. I'm exercising my Constitutional right to self-expression.
As Americans and more importantly, as writers, we cannot take our freedom and our Constitutional rights for granted. We shouldn't be so afraid of offending someone that we censor ourselves, or worse let the government censor us.
Vladimir Putin recently said that Americans aren't really free -- that it's all an illusion. Of course we reacted angrily. But if we take a good, hard look in the mirror and are brutally honest with ourselves, we will have to admit that he's got a point.
That being stated, here's my take on Obamacare....
--------------------------------------
Although it's neither here nor there,
I do not want Obamacare.
So I won't enroll a few weeks from now,
I can't afford it anyhow.
I suppose I'll just pay the fines in my taxes.
I'm sick of politicians grinding axes.
I know our healthcare system's broken,
But Obamacare is a foolish notion.
Alas, there's no way to defund it.
Just ask any White House pundit!
Senator Cruz -- he's so full of bluster.
But please God, no more filibusters!
They'll never heed the people's voice,
In Obamacare we have no choice.
Now I rest my case, so simply stated.
Obamacare is over rated!
Until next time, "That's life..."
For the first time since I started this blog five months ago, I decided not to write anything. I didn't want to write a word and frankly I didn't care about the repercussions. My decision partially stemmed from the fact that I'd run out of creative energy -- but mostly from the fact that I was really, really, really angry.
Fresh from a one-week stay in Serbia -- a country where the government frowned upon freedom of speech for years, I returned to the good 'ole U.S. of A to find our duly elected representatives embroiled in the petty bickering, mudslinging, muck raking and gridlock that ultimately resulted in the partial government shutdown the remains in effect.
I vented my own frustration about the Affordable Care Act or Obamacare in a poem. In it, I took a few pokes at the Left and a jab at the Right for good measure.
I sent it off to a few newspapers, hoping they'd run it as a letter to the editor. To date, no one has done so. The editors of one website said they liked it. It was funny -- and right on target, they said. But they didn't want to run it. It was too controversial they said. It might offend people... It was too risky.
Whatever happened to freedom of speech? I thought. This is the United States of America. It's not Serbia. It's not China, or North Korea, or Iraq or Iran or Afghanistan... I'm not screaming fire in a crowded theater. I'm exercising my Constitutional right to self-expression.
As Americans and more importantly, as writers, we cannot take our freedom and our Constitutional rights for granted. We shouldn't be so afraid of offending someone that we censor ourselves, or worse let the government censor us.
Vladimir Putin recently said that Americans aren't really free -- that it's all an illusion. Of course we reacted angrily. But if we take a good, hard look in the mirror and are brutally honest with ourselves, we will have to admit that he's got a point.
That being stated, here's my take on Obamacare....
--------------------------------------
Although it's neither here nor there,
I do not want Obamacare.
So I won't enroll a few weeks from now,
I can't afford it anyhow.
I suppose I'll just pay the fines in my taxes.
I'm sick of politicians grinding axes.
I know our healthcare system's broken,
But Obamacare is a foolish notion.
Alas, there's no way to defund it.
Just ask any White House pundit!
Senator Cruz -- he's so full of bluster.
But please God, no more filibusters!
They'll never heed the people's voice,
In Obamacare we have no choice.
Now I rest my case, so simply stated.
Obamacare is over rated!
Until next time, "That's life..."
September 26, 2013
Derailed: A New York City adventure
So, a funny thing happened on the way to the theater...
No, seriously. I honestly had no idea my trip to and from Manhattan to review an off-Broadway production would turn into such an adventure when I set out for the Port Chester train station late Wednesday morning.
I spotted the first clue that something was amiss when I arrived at the New York
-bound platform after a 10-minute walk and a long climb up a set of steep concrete steps. The small, suspended, digital message board simply stated "Service Change" in bright orange letters. Uh-oh...
Undaunted I went to the ticket kiosk in the old station building only to find the whole thing blocked off due to construction. Still only mildly annoyed, I went to the trailer housing the temporary ticket office. No one was there.
Now aggravated, I bought my round-trip, off-peak ticket from the vending machine on the platform. I added a $5 Metro Card and hoped it would be enough for the subway fare.
Aggravation morphed into something worse when another commuter asked if anyone knew when the next train was coming and then explained that service on Metro North's New Haven line was all screwed up.
It turned out some sort of power failure disrupted service before the morning rush hour and it had yet to be fully restored, yet another man explained. He said provisions had been made for diesel locomotives to haul the commuter trains between Stamford and Grand Central, but there was only one per hour.
Sometime during this discussion, the station master returned to his temporary trailer office. We could tell because announcements began blaring from the loudspeakers suspended near the message boards. Attention all passengers at Port Chester. The 12:13 p.m. train to Grand Central Terminal is running 10 to 15 minutes late due to service changes." Another one followed a few minutes later. "Attention all passengers at Port Chester. The 12:13 p.m. train to Grand Central Terminal is running approximately 20 minutes late due to service changes".
It seemed the longer we stood there, the worse the projected delays got. I contemplated my options and determined that I would not -- under any circumstances -- drive into the city. And just when it seemed all hope was lost, the 12:13 p.m. train to Grand Central Terminal pulled into the station. It was only 30 minutes late.
As it turned out, the actual train ride into the city was uneventful. My trip home was anything but.
Having taken the uptown 6 train to Grand Central Station, I arrived just in time to catch the 9:10 p.m. train to Port Chester. But there was nothing to indicate which track the train was leaving from. It only took 40 minutes to find out.
Hundreds of commuters milled around the main concourse while awaiting the announcement. Some took pictures. Some chatted with the New York police officers assigned to monitor the situation. Others crowded around the Information Booth in a futile attempt to learn more.
I kept my mom apprised by cell phone and briefly thought about crashing in a midtown hotel for the night. Not wanting to miss a crucial announcement, I kept the conversations brief and followed the rest of the crowed as it inched towards the track entrances that might -- just might -- lead to the outbound train.
En mass, we surged forward when the track announcement finally came. There was urgency, but remarkably little pushing and shoving. Just in case anyone decided to press the issue, I loudly reminded everyone that I'd rather not be trampled.
By the time I finally got on the train, every seat was packed and the people who were forced to stand filled the aisles. Things only got worse as people tried to board the train further up the line. Finally, the conductor told everyone at one station to wait for the next train, which was just "10 minutes behind us."
You mean to tell me that after all of this the 10:10 is actually on time? I asked.
No one answered.
Until next time, "That's life..."
No, seriously. I honestly had no idea my trip to and from Manhattan to review an off-Broadway production would turn into such an adventure when I set out for the Port Chester train station late Wednesday morning.
I spotted the first clue that something was amiss when I arrived at the New York
-bound platform after a 10-minute walk and a long climb up a set of steep concrete steps. The small, suspended, digital message board simply stated "Service Change" in bright orange letters. Uh-oh...
Undaunted I went to the ticket kiosk in the old station building only to find the whole thing blocked off due to construction. Still only mildly annoyed, I went to the trailer housing the temporary ticket office. No one was there.
Now aggravated, I bought my round-trip, off-peak ticket from the vending machine on the platform. I added a $5 Metro Card and hoped it would be enough for the subway fare.
Aggravation morphed into something worse when another commuter asked if anyone knew when the next train was coming and then explained that service on Metro North's New Haven line was all screwed up.
It turned out some sort of power failure disrupted service before the morning rush hour and it had yet to be fully restored, yet another man explained. He said provisions had been made for diesel locomotives to haul the commuter trains between Stamford and Grand Central, but there was only one per hour.
Sometime during this discussion, the station master returned to his temporary trailer office. We could tell because announcements began blaring from the loudspeakers suspended near the message boards. Attention all passengers at Port Chester. The 12:13 p.m. train to Grand Central Terminal is running 10 to 15 minutes late due to service changes." Another one followed a few minutes later. "Attention all passengers at Port Chester. The 12:13 p.m. train to Grand Central Terminal is running approximately 20 minutes late due to service changes".
It seemed the longer we stood there, the worse the projected delays got. I contemplated my options and determined that I would not -- under any circumstances -- drive into the city. And just when it seemed all hope was lost, the 12:13 p.m. train to Grand Central Terminal pulled into the station. It was only 30 minutes late.
As it turned out, the actual train ride into the city was uneventful. My trip home was anything but.
Having taken the uptown 6 train to Grand Central Station, I arrived just in time to catch the 9:10 p.m. train to Port Chester. But there was nothing to indicate which track the train was leaving from. It only took 40 minutes to find out.
Hundreds of commuters milled around the main concourse while awaiting the announcement. Some took pictures. Some chatted with the New York police officers assigned to monitor the situation. Others crowded around the Information Booth in a futile attempt to learn more.
I kept my mom apprised by cell phone and briefly thought about crashing in a midtown hotel for the night. Not wanting to miss a crucial announcement, I kept the conversations brief and followed the rest of the crowed as it inched towards the track entrances that might -- just might -- lead to the outbound train.
En mass, we surged forward when the track announcement finally came. There was urgency, but remarkably little pushing and shoving. Just in case anyone decided to press the issue, I loudly reminded everyone that I'd rather not be trampled.
By the time I finally got on the train, every seat was packed and the people who were forced to stand filled the aisles. Things only got worse as people tried to board the train further up the line. Finally, the conductor told everyone at one station to wait for the next train, which was just "10 minutes behind us."
You mean to tell me that after all of this the 10:10 is actually on time? I asked.
No one answered.
Until next time, "That's life..."
September 20, 2013
Lost in translation (Part I)
I'd like to think I'm a pretty intelligent, somewhat open-minded person. But to be honest, I didn't really realize how much I took for granted before I went to Europe.
Among other things, I didn't fully understand or appreciate the complexities of the English language. Or maybe I just forgot about them. After all, I have been speaking English since I learned how to talk.
Being in predominantly non-English speaking countries forced me to concentrate on the basics and allowed me to forget how much some of the idiosyncrasies that find their way into everyday speech and writing bug me. Now that I'm back in the States, I'm painfully aware of how much certain things drive me up the wall.
My biggest pet peeve in both speech and writing is the use of needless or repetitive redundancies. (Yes, I did that on purpose).
Here are just a few examples:
ATM machine. I mean, come on. Really? Last I heard, the acronym stands for Automated Teller Machine. So why must people constantly refer to automated teller machine machines?
Left to go. This is common sports jargon, so tell me if any of this sounds familiar. There are five laps left to go in the race. He scored the winning goal with less than five minutes left to go in the fourth quarter. Give me a break. There are either five laps left or five laps to go. Right?
End result. As defined in Webster's II New College Dictionary a result is the consequence or outcome of an action, and to result in something is to end in a given way. So I can understand the use of the terms "immediate result," "short term result" or "long term result." But "end result"? No way.
What are some of your pet peeves? Think about it and let me know.
Until next time, "That's life..."
Among other things, I didn't fully understand or appreciate the complexities of the English language. Or maybe I just forgot about them. After all, I have been speaking English since I learned how to talk.
Being in predominantly non-English speaking countries forced me to concentrate on the basics and allowed me to forget how much some of the idiosyncrasies that find their way into everyday speech and writing bug me. Now that I'm back in the States, I'm painfully aware of how much certain things drive me up the wall.
My biggest pet peeve in both speech and writing is the use of needless or repetitive redundancies. (Yes, I did that on purpose).
Here are just a few examples:
ATM machine. I mean, come on. Really? Last I heard, the acronym stands for Automated Teller Machine. So why must people constantly refer to automated teller machine machines?
Left to go. This is common sports jargon, so tell me if any of this sounds familiar. There are five laps left to go in the race. He scored the winning goal with less than five minutes left to go in the fourth quarter. Give me a break. There are either five laps left or five laps to go. Right?
End result. As defined in Webster's II New College Dictionary a result is the consequence or outcome of an action, and to result in something is to end in a given way. So I can understand the use of the terms "immediate result," "short term result" or "long term result." But "end result"? No way.
What are some of your pet peeves? Think about it and let me know.
Until next time, "That's life..."
September 12, 2013
Reflections
Yesterday I sat alone and watched as, two at a time, relatives who lost loved ones on September 11, 2001, stepped to the podiums at the World Trade Center memorial site and read the names of those who perished.
As I watched and listened, I cried. I cried just as hard as I did on that beautiful Tuesday morning all those years ago -- and just as hard as I have every year since. I cried for strangers who lost their lives and for their friends and families. I cried for my country. I shed tears of sorrow, tears of rage, tears of regret.
I thought of the days just a few weeks ago, when I walked through the streets of downtown Belgrade and looked upon the vestiges of NATO bombings led by America in the 1990s. Years after the last shelling, the ruins of two buildings located just up the road from the former U.S. Embassy stand as stark reminders of the past.
Scars are visible elsewhere in the city. The remnants of another building that once housed Serbian television and radio studios also remain unchanged. The Serbian government knew NATO planned to target it, but deliberately ignored the warning and failed to evacuate the building, my cousin said. The regime wanted to show that it was being unfairly attacked and that innocent civilians were paying the price. Today, a small marble slate in a park across the street from the hulking ruins pays tribute to those who did.
Almost casually, my cousin and her husband recall the days when the sounds of incoming NATO missiles filled city streets just a few blocks from where they now live. A whistling and sizzling noise were precursors for destruction, they said.
My relatives in no way supported the Serbian regime that caused so much chaos and bloodshed in the 1990s. In fact, they detested Slobodan Milosevic. They were innocent citizens who were simply trying to survive.
So as I sat on a park bench overlooking Sava and Danube, I apologized for my government. I apologized for my country. And I cried.
Until next time, "That's life..."
As I watched and listened, I cried. I cried just as hard as I did on that beautiful Tuesday morning all those years ago -- and just as hard as I have every year since. I cried for strangers who lost their lives and for their friends and families. I cried for my country. I shed tears of sorrow, tears of rage, tears of regret.
I thought of the days just a few weeks ago, when I walked through the streets of downtown Belgrade and looked upon the vestiges of NATO bombings led by America in the 1990s. Years after the last shelling, the ruins of two buildings located just up the road from the former U.S. Embassy stand as stark reminders of the past.
Scars are visible elsewhere in the city. The remnants of another building that once housed Serbian television and radio studios also remain unchanged. The Serbian government knew NATO planned to target it, but deliberately ignored the warning and failed to evacuate the building, my cousin said. The regime wanted to show that it was being unfairly attacked and that innocent civilians were paying the price. Today, a small marble slate in a park across the street from the hulking ruins pays tribute to those who did.
Almost casually, my cousin and her husband recall the days when the sounds of incoming NATO missiles filled city streets just a few blocks from where they now live. A whistling and sizzling noise were precursors for destruction, they said.
My relatives in no way supported the Serbian regime that caused so much chaos and bloodshed in the 1990s. In fact, they detested Slobodan Milosevic. They were innocent citizens who were simply trying to survive.
So as I sat on a park bench overlooking Sava and Danube, I apologized for my government. I apologized for my country. And I cried.
Until next time, "That's life..."
That's life...
All you may -- or may not -- want to know about my adventures as an author and other stuff.
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