I suppose people don't want to hear this, but I had a good year in 2001. Certainly better than 2000, and in most respects almost as good as 1998 (which ranks as my favorite year of the 90s after 1992).

I can hear certain of you crying, "What about the terrorists?" Well, what about them? The number of people killed by terrorists in 2001 wasn't much (if any) above average for one year if you look at the past decade or so. Yeah, a higher proportion of them were Americans, and an awful lot of them did occur on one particular day, but that really shouldn't matter, should it? Ask the citizens of Sri Lanka or the Philippines or Israel or Gaza or Algeria or Eritrea or Colombia just how much more important those 3,500 or so U.S. citizens killed in September are than anyone else who died at the hand of another.

Sure I was horrified and transfixed by the events of 9/11. But I've gotten past that--mostly. Despite knowing more than a thousand people in New York (including a large number who work in Greenwich Village and further south), not one of my acquaintances died that day. Some lost friends and loved ones, though a quick check of my e-mails shows that more out-of-NYC people (of my acquaintance) suffered losses than those who lived in the city.

Thing is, I shouldn't have to justify my feelings on this. I'm a reasonably empathetic person, but I don't feel that I need to punish myself every single day imagining what it would be like to be in the World Trade Center towers and listening to the floors above me collapsing, knowing that any second my life is about to be turned off like a television set. That sort of morbid imagination is not particularly constructive, and it does nothing to honor the memory of those who died in such circumstances.

No, 2001 was a good year for me. I was unemployed for most of it (and I didn't do much work the month-and-a-half I did get paid), and I spent most of that time (when not job hunting) writing. I wrote some 600-plus reviews of underground bands. I wrote around 175,000 words toward four novel projects. One of them is really good, one of them is about half good, one contains a pretty good short story idea and the last one needs to be reworked completely. Such is the lot of writing. I enjoyed having the luxury of time to sit down and crank out a wide variety of thoughts. And if all goes well, by the end of January I ought to have a finished book ready to make the rejection rounds.

My wife Barbara and I spent a lot of time at the beach. At all sorts of beaches along the North Carolina coast. Almost a month's worth of time over the spring and summer. As a person who grew up mainly in the midwest, the existence of a beach (with ocean) is something akin to miraculous. I've always liked rivers and creeks and running bodies of water. Still do. But the eternally oscillating nature of the sea is as great a wonder and mystery. I'm happy to have spent time pondering it.

And then, of course, there's the 800-lb. gorilla of my year, the impending birth of our first child (gender unknown, if you must pry). The critter should arrive sometime during the first two months of 2002, and Barbara and I have spent most of our free time getting ready for baby.

Apart from planning, buying big items (crib, etc.) and registering for small items, this has meant an increased amount of time spent on fixing up the house. I've painted doors, ceilings and walls. We're in the middle of getting the window replaced in what will be the nursery. We've still got work to do on the bathroom, and our kitchen project will just have to wait until after the critter is born. But that's okay. There's always time. Friends have told me that having children makes you aware of how quickly time passes and the importance of looking to the future.

For all the bad things that have happened (and, by far, the worst events of 2001 in my life are personal, not national), I can't say this has been a bad year for me. Not in the slightest. I don't feel that my mood needs to be uplifted by tax cuts for corporations, and I don't feel that my honor needs to be assuaged by more bombing of crumbled rock. Rather, I think I'll take a moment to sit back and actually enjoy remembering 2001. Not the best of years, perhaps, but a pretty darned good one, anyway.

Jon Worley is aware that you could care less about his self-centered self-satisfaction, but he figures he can safely indulge himself once a year.