Tomorrow, on the 24th of August, is my birthday, my 24th, but I am not going to celebrate, not because of melancholy or depression, no, not at all, for at present I am quite content with my life as it is, and though there is always room for improvement, I have come to the conclusion that appreciating what you have is just as important as striving for more, so the reason I do not celebrate my birthday is that, Continue reading
Cars move too fast; modern life is fast and hectic as it is — we need to slow down, not speed up. Cars get into traffic jams, reminding us how tediously unpleasant modern life can be at times — how annoying it is to find yourself in the midst of a cacophony of honking and shouting and cursing and boiling tempers and to see the pedestrian strolling at his leisure on the sidewalk.
Cars are noisy, with a bad kind of noise, the noise of hurry — just compare the graceful and dignified clip-clopping of a horse with the impersonal vroom-vrooming of cars. Cars drink gas greedily. Cars pollute the air we breathe. Cars crowd our streets and injure pedestrians, to say nothing of cyclists. Cars crash into each other or into other things and pucker up into ugly metal wrinkles and spray the ground with broken glass.
Cars kill people: 1.3 million every year, 3,287 every day. Cars injure or disable between 20 and 50 million people every year.*
Few fiction writers live off their stories. Most authors, even published ones, tend to have a day job that may or may not involve non-fiction writing, editing, or teaching. For my part, I don’t make any money with my fiction, but then so far I haven’t even tried to. I’m not bombarding you with self-published e-books (you’ll find just one on my site, and I’ve never bothered about marketing it), fund-raising campaigns, or ads, and I don’t feel frustrated in any way. On the contrary, I am happy. Let me tell you why.