On Writing

Friday, June 27, 2008 ~ No Comments

One day I’ll figure out how many words I type in an average (week)day. I have absolutely no idea what that total will be but I can already guess that it’ll scare the bejesus outta me. Be they emails, instant messages, text messages, documents, presentations, spreadsheets, blog posts, blog comments, articles or just jotting down items in my to do list, words dominate my day.

I hate them.

Well I don’t hate them, but I certainly abuse them on a regular basis. Mind you, given the amount of abuse the English language gets, and given that a lot of it is brought about by the language itself, with it’s twisting, turning rules and exceptions, part of thinks the words welcome the abuse, I think they kinda like it.The English language is the sadomasochist of the linguistic world.

Of course my job makes it difficult to avoid words so between us we’ve developed a love/hate relationship. I try and use them properly, they promise not to bite me in the ass too often (although between you and me, I’m not sure it’s a very even agreement, I’m SURE the words could try a little harder to be nice).

I don’t hate words.

Truth be told I do still enjoy the thrill of certain combinations of words, the gentle flow and rhythm, the beauty of juxtaposition and the jar of the unexpected. I’ve experimented a little with such things on this very blog, the occasion attempt at something “more”, but I struggle to find my own flow and rhythm, the words jar awkwardly on the screen and every line, every construct, takes it’s toll.

I don’t consider myself a writer here, more a casual scribbler, yet with each passing word the grandiose and ridiculous thought grows in my head, maybe I could?

Homeward Bound

Friday, November 23, 2007 ~ 6 Comments

The sun slinks away across the fields, the soft faded glow trailing in its wake as the hills become mountains again.

He is heading home.

As the train rattles and rushes onwards a solitary face stares past the reflections to the distant hills. The remnants of daylight pick out a cottage on the hillside, lights flickering inside, idyllic, remote, and surreal. Too picture perfect to exist, he must have imagined it.

Past fields of livestock, sheep glow in the sunset, pools of water emit an eerie glow, now is the time of spirits and stories. He pictures the scene, farmers, warriors or travellers, huddled around the fire sharing tales of mysterious times. The wind whipping round them, ashes and sparks swirling above them as they weave their stories, embellishing wildly, bringing monsters to life.

He ponders the story tellers of today, sitting huddled to tell their tales, the glow of fire long gone but bathed in light nonetheless. Are they worse for it? It is a folly regardless, all he wants is to get home.

He turns to the sunset, pale orange over silouhette, trees form the backdrop, wayang golek that is missing the rod puppets.

Headlights dip and roll on a remote road, blazing signs into view, breaking the gloom. They don’t last long and soon the dark descends further. Items are lost in the dark, towns only exist in streetlight, points of orange on black.

The last wisps of dusk wink out leaving the train as the only energy, moving at a blur, pulling stations from nowhere before discarding them to darkness once more. And then the false dawn begins, the dull glow of sodium and neon bouncing to the heavens to mark the city. Faster, he thinks, faster, almost there, almost home.

Flashes of pale white light pick out hillsides and roads, villages and towns but soon even they vanish as the clouds swallow the moon.

Can’t be long now? Can’t be far from home.

He is always the same, enjoying the journey until it is almost at an end, then willing, wishing and dreaming it was over. Anxiously and silently urging the movement on, hoping others are doing the same. The power of the mind, can we will the train home? Closing his eyes to draw the lights closer, he is almost there.

The final rattle, the lurch as momentum is lost and a new light enters the carriage.

So close now. Almost home.

You sound funny

Wednesday, November 14, 2007 ~ 6 Comments

Since moving jobs, Louise now has her own email address. We ping the occasional email back and forth, usually to confirm plans for the evening. A couple of recent emails were a bit longer and I found myself a little puzzled. My wife sounds very different in text. That is, whilst I can hear her voice, the phrasing and tone implied when she writes is quite different from her everyday voice.

Of course that is only to be expected, and frankly I’m a little embarassed to only really be considering such a thing after having spent a fair chunk of the last few years online. I’ve met a few bloggers and none have “sounded” the same as the way they write. Does that even make sense? Well, regardless of my ham-fisted attempt to grasp this topic, I’m sure most of you have an idea of what I’m waffling on about (that’s makes a change, eh!).

This, to me, marks the great writer from the good, the skilled wordsmith from the mediocre keyboard basher. The ability to capture nuances of the spoken word and display them in written form is an art, and I’m lucky to have been reading some wonderful proponents of such skill for a few years now. Some of them have, deservedly, gained book deals, others have moved into writing full-time, and one or two remain somewhat secret from the rest of the mainstream, all of them make me laugh, make me cry and generally remind me just how powerful the written word can be.

I wonder if they would have the same impact if I’d met them and spoken to them?

Hot black liquid

Monday, November 12, 2007 ~ 9 Comments

Each lazy blink draws my eyelids down, heavy and bloodshot, a constant dryness that no tear can salve. My head is full of freshly picked cotton wool, burrs grate inside my skull and everything is hazy and soft, removed. Every inhalation pulls a yawn to my lungs, saps another trickle of precious energy. Willing myself to focus, ignoring the incessant call of sleep, the lure of drowse.

Caffeine is the cure, the elixir, the nectar that will tame the blurry-eyed beast. I watch, mesmerised, as my hand hovers over my mug pouring my saviour into my cup, the dark awake sloshing up the sides. I know the bitterness will pull me back from the brink and as I lift the steaming promise to my lips, the deep warm aroma floats up and the senses nudge one another, ensuring all are awake. Lifting my mug closer I close my eyes and then … mindless bliss as the first surge of hot liquid descends through the rings of lethargy. I feel the buzz kicking in, vibratant with each mouthful, my eyes opening, blinking fast, I am ready to face the day.

Is this what an addict needs? Is it the anticipation of what is to come or the actual rush itelf? How much of addiction is laid out in habit? The process as much as the substance?

My name is Gordon McLean. I am addicted to caffeine.

If I don’t get my morning caffeine fix I am cranky and end up with a sore head. My body has come to rely on caffeine and whilst the withdrawal symptoms are mild in comparison to many other addictions, they are reliable and tell me I have a problem. I’ve read the studies on why excess caffeine is a bad thing and I do try and limit myself to a few cups a day. The rest of the day is fine, but the pattern of addiction remains a morning cup of coffee as soon as I get to work.

This post was brought to you after my.. umm.. second cup of coffee.

Anyone else want to join me and confess their addiction?

Writing is hard

Friday, August 24, 2007 ~ 7 Comments

Most of you probably know, by now, that my day job is writing software documentation. Actually it’s a hell of a lot more than that but that’s a discussion for another place, which nicely brings me round to my topic du jour.

I’ve been blogging for so long now that I easily slip between “work” writing mode and “blog” writing mode. One is conversational and prone to grammatical faux pas, the other is what I use when I’m blogging… These two writing modes are joined by a third mode, which is far more eloquent. Alas it doesn’t deign to hang around with the riff-raff too often and spends most of its time offline in various documents and files.

Over the years my “blog” writing mode has developed into what you see today. I’ve stol borrowed several style ideas from others, obv, but that DOES NOT MAKE ME A BAD PERSON (although I hope that content offers me some leeway). Thanks to anna (obv), heather (CAPS) and Lyle (italicised emphasis used for side thoughts), all of whom, I feel I should point out, trump me on content everytime. And no, I’m not being modest, and no I’m not hunting for platypus.. titudes..

Since starting my other blog, I am finding myself developing yet another writing style which is part way between “work” and “blog” modes and, whilst it’s still very much a work in progress I am enjoying the experience. I’ve mentioned before that it is a bit odd to be starting a new blog, from scratch, after all this time, and I am doing my utmost to remember all those things I wish someone had told me when I started out this esteemed tome that you are currently reading.

Am I allowed to call my own work esteemed? Probably not.

The evolution of a writing voice is best achieved by, you know, writing a lot. It doesn’t always have to be good (refer to my bulging archives for evidence) but the more you do it, the better it gets. Of course the audience plays a part as well, pitching your content correctly isn’t always easy, but some educated guesses will get you pretty far, certainly far enough for most hobbyist bloggers.

And therein lies the crux of the matter. THIS blog is a hobby, THAT OTHER blog isn’t. Not really. It’s self-promotion, it’s open to my peers and so the content comes under more detailed (or at least more consistently detailed) scrutiny. I’ll quite happily concede that I’m using it as a way to find my professional voice with the aim of writing an article or two for publication. It goes hand-in-hand with the reasons behind the move to the “oneman” brand, and with the upcoming re-design of said websites. It may even become part of an MA in future years, but that’s a fairly big decision which can wait for now.

As for the other kind of writing, the more eloquent prose that occasionally spring on you, that will continue to burble away in the background. I do enjoy writing it, and whilst I don’t find it particularly hard, it usually gets a couple of edits before it gets published. Alas it’s wholly dependant on my mood, time available and ultimately it’s not something I can sustain for more than the length of a blogpost.

In other words, no, I am not writing a book.

Yet.

Wandering

Tuesday, August 21, 2007 ~ 7 Comments

A young girl skips by, her entire world reduced to the doll she holds out in front of her. As she passes an old man he breaks into a muted smile, her carefree abandon reflected in shallow water.

Struggling with the wheels on the uneven pavement, a young woman graciously declines an offer of help. She flashes a heart wrenching smile and wheels herself away, slowly, determined and with no little effort.

In a cafe a baby coughs, a concerned mother turns only to shake her head as the first gurgle of laughter trickles out. Soon a gentle, contented giggle wafts over to the other patrons. Heads slowly turn to the noise, listening, smiling. Infected.

Outside, staggering on heels, bags bulging at their sides, they giggle and whisper, suppressing laughter, trying to stay in the moment. They pause at shop windows, and remarked innuendos drawing glances from passersby. An old lady, bent over her cane, struggles slowly past. The girls gather round a window as she shuffles past. She pauses behind them, then shuffles on. A smile of recognition on her face, a glimpse of times past.

Between sips of coffee, the writer dives into his notebook, slashing ink and thoughts, capturing fragments of life for no good reason. Pausing, the realisation slowly sinks in as the smile sneaks onto his face. Reason is of no use here. The why, the what, the who, none of them matter and none can change any of this. Sometimes it’s enough that things just are.

He puts down his pen once more. Ready for the next time.

Eyes closed

Tuesday, August 21, 2007 ~ 4 Comments

A soft coating of dust is not an usual sight in my home office. Every now and then it gets sufficiently bad that the naughty words and pictures drawn in it are a little too obvious and it’s time get the dusters and polish out from the cupboard under the sink, and spend a little time making my little corner of the house a little more habitable. Inevitably it will also involve reorganising my desk or bookshelves, and the production of at least one big black bin bag of rubbish.

Such a momentous event occurred last weekend and I can happily report that my home office is now spick and span and.. ohh wait.. it’s not really. I had started to dust and tidy but soon the re-organisation bug kicked in and I was swapping book around on shelves, moving a box of cables and peripherals to the cupboard, shuffling my monitor onto a stand, and so on and so what.

During all this, as I nipped back and forth from iTunes to skip past the Christmas Carol that random mode kept throwing at me, I noticed that my camera was dusty.

Now, I do keep it in a case but since it’s last outing a couple of weeks ago it’s been lying on my desk, precisely where I left it after getting the photos from it.

This is not a good thing.

Not because of the coating of dust but because it’s going against everything I said when I bought the camera. Namely that I’d, you know, use it to take photos. More often. That last bit is the important one.

I need to get out more, and take my camera with me.

One slight problem is the fact that, largely, Louise and I don’t really do that much.

Our weekends are either filled with chores and work, visiting family, or attending any number of events (not all of which I take my camera too anyway). It’s not that we are boring but…

God, that’s it! We are boring. Great.

Not quite where I thought this blog post was heading but there you go, the truth will out.

Sort of.

You see it’s not that we don’t do anything but it’s more that, whilst Louise will tolerate me and my camera, I am always conscious that my repeated “hold on, I want to get it from this angle” warblings may be a bit of a drag.

So what I really need to do is get out more on my own. That’s it. Perhaps a day spent wandering round Glasgow will suffice. A little shopping on the way.. yes that sounds ideal.

And any notion that I may happen to be in Glasgow this Saturday morning in time for the opening of the Apple store is.. obviously, ridiculous. Mind you, I did hear they are giving away free t-shirts.