Tag: writing

Goodbye

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It turns out to be harder ending something than it does starting or sustaining it. We can fall into things and then rely on habitual behaviours to sustain them but finding a suitable way of calling time appears to be the real challenge. This day was always coming. The end was inevitable despite the odd temptation. The hard part is not about struggling to let go or fearing what comes next, it’s about being able to walk away from something despite it being such a big part of your life, and on the whole a positive part. Throw in the ego which somehow wants to go out with style and any suitable last piece becomes impossible. This is not my first draft. I have had more drafts today, or attempts, than I’ve had second drafts in the entire year. But call an end we must for all this must end one day.

It’s the self-congratulatory indulgent nature of this last piece I’m struggling with. I’m pleased with myself for going a whole year, writing a piece every single day. It’s not that I didn’t think myself capable but I’m only human. Granted there was the post mountain rave piece I only managed a few sentences, the day I wrote a piece but didn’t publish and the day in the first month I published a piece I had written as a back up a few days earlier. I never said I was perfect but there are no judges, nobody except myself to say I passed or failed. I may have involved others, but like most things on social media I was using you for my own ends. The Strava Wanker of the blog writing world. So I pat myself on the back, fuck it I deserve it, and carry on.

This was a fun experiment. It was exhausting and it has been a hectic year. Some pieces I really enjoyed and was pleased with and others descended into little more than journal entries. But it has been a whole year and that is plenty of time for it to morph into a mouthpiece for whatever I’m thinking or feeling, both positive and negative as the days unfolded. What now then, what comes in it’s place. Something must always come in its place. It is important to know when to finish things, and in this case the natural conclusion comes from the planned conclusion. I’ll accept I’m quite a sentimental person and will miss my daily jaunt into writing. I enjoyed creating the habit even though it wasn’t always easy. But now this habit must morph into something new. Time will give the answers and you may hear from me again, just with different intentions and not on here. For now though, thank you for sharing this with me.

On a final note I would like to wish a happy birthday to the man I call father. Sixty-nine years young today.

The Sweetest Of Nihilists

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Not long now. This is my third last piece and I’m becoming acutely aware of making the most of what’s left. I love starting things and while I certainly don’t finish everything, I do also enjoy that rounded feeling of completion. There are times I overplay the ceremonial nature of the last night, or the last time, or the last whatever and have learnt over the years it is slightly unnecessary. Sometimes you just have to get on with things, be the stone cold killer who calls time. Let’s see how I do on Saturday then, stone cold or the more familiar sentimental killer. Enough of that though, save it for another time.

Now then, to make the most of what’s left – stares blankly at the white wall in front, searching for something in what is ultimately nothing – but really does it matter. Does it change anything if this piece is nonsense and doesn’t discuss something deep and meaningful, virtuous or god forbid political. I’ve given up on politics, well on here at least. I enjoy it but it can end but being a judgemental one sided screaming match and nobody needs that in their lives. I said goodbye with Trump, the British stuff is so entangled in it’s own bullshit it’ll never end. Which leaves me with a few things but all I have is this blank wall. As I said though, it doesn’t really matter. Without doubt their is a nihilist within me and I let him out from time to time. Rational and irrational go to war over who can push the nihilist back in his box, the box of pointless nothing. The stone cold serial killer as nihilist? No, I miss the point of my own nihilism. And there’s always a point.

It’s my birthday today. I don’t know how I feel about that. One year older. It doesn’t really bother me in an excitable way but there will always be a bit that enjoys it. I can understand why people stop being fussed about celebrating them as they get older though. For some it’s a denial of their own decay yet sometimes you just don’t give a shit. There can be a lot of bravado involved at times like this, and we all love a bit of attention and fussing as the dog enjoys their belly rubbed, but really it is just another day. Yet it isn’t, it’s a day that reminds you that despite almost impossible odds, that after over four billion years of the earths existence, everything in that time fell into place and your consciousness, whatever the hell that is, became real. Perhaps it was always real and will always be, but whatever it is, the odds against us are staggering and we’re still here to be aware of it. We’re still here despite everything. And with that we continue to defy the odds. That’s probably worth celebrating. Marvel at the beauty of life not the self-absorbed indulgence of decay. Get back in thy box sweet nihilist.

Short Story Telling

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The Open University are celebrating National Novel Writing Month or #NaNoWriMo as is peoples want. They are running a daily flash fiction competition for the next eight days. Well seven as they started yesterday. You are provided with a photograph of something lockdown or Covid related and given a maximum of fifty words to write a story. It turns out to be quite challenging but that is as much down to the word limit as the fact writing stories are in general.

That is yesterdays photo and story. The photo at the top is todays so they’re going with some atmospheric and powerful black and white thing clearly. This is my entry for today. I think the end is a bit weak but I get lazy staring at something for too long and decided just to go with it. It’s all just practise anyway. Maybe not all of it but a large enough amount for it to be a thing.

“We call this one The Six Ages of Lockdown. You can see the evolution from oblivious to acceptance, and all the mischievous boredom in between”

“They look so lifelike, you’ve really captured something authentic”

“Yes, we’re very pleased with this installation”

“It’s as if the sculptor actually lived it.”

Having posted it in the comments section I’m now aware, and it’s been fifteen minutes now, that nobody has liked it. Every other has at least one, some several and there’s even the odd laughing emoji. Nobody likes to admit to these kinds of insecurities but it is enjoyable observing them in myself. We’re all human after all and we all just want a little confirmation that we’re doing something right or well. Arenas like Facebook simply feed this. Can it be seen as being part of the fallible human ideal I like to believe in I wonder. Potentially but perhaps it’s our response to our insecurities which can be looked on as the fallible part. Surely our insecurities are just some animal survival mechanism checking we did the right thing and aren’t about to get eaten. I doubt I’m going to get eaten. It’s the pit of hissing critical snakes, or even worse, the silent version which says nothing at all I’m more worried about.

The link in the hashtag at the top takes you to the actual celebration of writing month but you can enter on the Open Universities Facebook page if you too want to attempt being a short short short story teller too. I’ll see you there tomorrow, likes or no likes.

An Updated Original Language

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It was a while ago now but I mentioned I was reading For Whom The Bell Tolls by Ernest Hemingway. While this was likely over two months ago, I did take a break from it for a bit and read some other stuff in between. As I start reading again though I’m reminded of something I’ve thought previously, and likely mentioned on here already. Books age. Or more precisely styles of language and storyline age. There is little we can do for the storylines. The wild west cowboy books will be of their time in the 1950s, they suffer from fashions, just as modern-day thrillers will one day do similar. This is evident in films of such things too. Pathetic female leads needing rescued by some heroic man is an ideal our sensitivities in 2020 are acutely aware. Perhaps the issue then is not the period but the quality of book. Books like this don’t last the test of time because they were never supposed to yet plenty from the period still make for great reading.

With that, there are plenty of books from the 1850s let alone the 1950s which still feel highly readable. Perhaps they are just so well written that they become ageless. For Whom The Bell Tolls unfortunately doesn’t feel like that. It is a classic of literature, Ernest Hemingway won the Nobel Prize for Literature. I enjoyed The Old Man & The Sea, which is a beautifully written story. There is something with this latest book which I can’t quite shake though. It feels like I’m reading a dated 1950s movie. It feels clunky and old fashioned and I didn’t expect it to. It’s an easy read, and not unenjoyable. The subject matter is one that interests me too but the language and imagery it creates have aged, and it’s aged to it’s detriment unfortunately.

This has got me thinking about a solution which I am aware is unfeasible. When I read books written by foreign authors, if the story is well known enough, it has likely been translated more than once since it’s publication. Recently, let’s say in the last ten years, Faber & Faber produced a new translation of Nikos Kazantzakis’s Zorba The Greek. From reviews it is a decent translation, less difficult to get through than the previous apparently but I’m cautious of that idea and it’s entirely subjective. Do some research on the Russian masters and you’ll discover multiple translations, evidently varying in quality enormously. You have to be careful to read the right ones otherwise your experience of one of the greats could be confusingly different to other peoples. When reading the introduction to Knut Hamsun’s Hunger the translator says the first translation was so bad, and he gave examples, that certain parts of the text had completely different meanings to the original. Translations are important.

What then for original versions. If someone translates Hemingway into Spanish, do they attempt to recreate and honour the exact style of the original or do they attempt to make it more accessible for the modern audience. Language evolves and translators are of their time. They can’t take liberties of course but a good translator is in some cases as important as the author. In that case, am I left with the unfortunate realisation that while books originally in foreign languages may evolve for me as language does but those originally in English will be doomed to age like the time they were born in. It could just be this current book, as many from that time don’t give off such an impression, but certainly it won’t be alone, other previously celebrated books and authors will disappear with the times too.

Which leads to the unthinkable, do we need books to be updated in their original languages too? There is no straightforward answer but unless they’re illegible through age the answer is likely no, don’t damage the intellectual property and creation of an artist. Could you imagine them touching up the Mona Lisa, giving her haircut a modern look. Yet it’s done in music with covers in a way. There is something that sits uncomfortably with the idea and I find it reassuring to feel that. Let the greats be greats and if their creation lasts whatever the evolution society hurls at them then great. If not, well so be it. As I said, unthinkable, yet the issue still remains.

Until Tomorrow

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Staring at a blank screen. The modern day blank paper. Think of something, do it now. Be creative, write some words worth repeating. Yet nothing. Nothing nothing nothing.

Well always something but it can feel like nothing. It’s times like these you remember to just start saying something, anything. Less than three weeks left. How will I force myself when I don’t have to. That is the real discipline. But I have an idea. Ideas never unfold as supposed to though. I’m curious to know how it’ll feel not to write. After one year of doing this everyday no matter what. How do you then experience not doing it. I might actually miss this little blog.

What to replace it with though. Likely nothing I’ll force upon others in the short term at least but hopefully something creative in another respect. It was discussed, the importance of creativity with a friend a few weeks ago. To say it is important over simplifies an understanding of creativity. But to go down that route in this moment will only result in me being both ridiculous and pretentious. Let’s just say it brings something to life, creativity in any form. it’s not just painting a picture or writing some words, it anything, it’s life.

Bellend.

That’ll do. I have heartburn. I wasn’t very creative with my dinner tonight and ate yesterdays lentils and sausage mixed with some pasta. My burps taste of sausage but I think it’s the day old lentils that have done it. I have a feeling day old lentils do this type of thing. Ah feelings. I quite fancy a beer. I think I’m just thirsty. I would love to say I don’t add salt to my food but certainly that sausage would have been packed full. Sausages are so disgusting yet we always go back. That’s because they’re also really tasty. Or they can be. This one was.

A Cretan rustic sausage to be precise. I liked Crete. I would like to go back. I was tempted this winter actually. Seems like a strange time to be moving places though. The world is shutting down and I’m doggedly fighting what is before my eyes. Why do we do this. Why can acceptance be so difficult. Too many options I always say. Most likely fear of something not immediately obvious. Back to Scotland instead though and what feels like the epicentre of everything viral. It isn’t but seemingly not far off. To leave a reasonably relaxed, warm Greece for a dark, cold inevitable lockdown in Scotland. We make the strangest of choices. They are neither right nor wrong because there is not such thing. Simply a series of events we compare against each other based upon a set of ideas formed from something long forgotten. And yet we choose value and we choose our response to this choice. One day we shall overcome. That’s likely what death beds are for though. Avoiding life’s only real obsession may be wise for now.

I shall end on this.

For now. And come back tomorrow.

A Day Off

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I had one of those days today. In a good way. I know that sentence has connotations but I actually enjoyed myself. Last night I discovered a trip I had half planned wasn’t going to happen. I had been speaking with someone about helping them sail from Greece to the Canary Islands but he changed his route and is already in Italy. It’s not the end of the world but I had invested a certain amount of energy in this as something to do and it was disappointing for it not to happen. In this day and age of Covid-19, being able to do many things is a bit of a struggle so I was pretty pleased to have found myself on such an interesting trip to a place I had yet to visit.

One thing that really excited me was that I planned on writing these and having them revolve around the sailing trip. I’m not exactly sure how but I know when I do eventually cross the Atlantic at some point I would like to keep a log of sorts on the psychological affects of being at sea for so long. That is a rough idea and I doubt it would be exactly like that as I go off on a tangent or find myself with so little to talk about I end up writing a whole piece on a game of cards or a dolphin. That would be a psychological thing I guess but still, sailing across an ocean is from what I hear a far less exciting thing than people imagine it would be. From here to Spain could have been a test run on that to a degree but alas.

Today then I woke up and decided it would be a good day to have a holiday. I did no boat work and went for a drive. I stopped, I drove, I got a coffee, I got a beer, I swam a little, I sat by the sea. I basically enjoyed myself. Despite being in Greece for a month I have been on slight work mode most of the time and I realised today I need to know when to just have a complete day off. It also means when I have days on I need to be a little more disciplined and efficient as allowing jobs to just drag on is enough to make anyone mad.

What next then. Well I don’t really know. I’m not sure I’m ready to step away from the beach and the sun but it’s seemingly the worst time ever to be travelling around, it’s also probably the worst time ever to be in the UK though so that doesn’t help. Come January I may need to start saving my visa days in the EU too so it looks like I may just have to return to the UK. I know nobody has any sympathy for me and I don’t blame you. We all find things to be frustrated about but in truth I know I’ll just do something else. It’s not what you’re doing but whether you’re making the most out of what you’re doing I guess. I’m sure there’s some wisdom in there somewhere.

A Football Challenge

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Can I blame my obsession with football on love for the sport? Perhaps it’s the love of procrastinating and the ample opportunities the utterly obscene amount of football news websites allow for. Maybe it’s some primal instinct within me that needs to blindly support a tribe, or two in my case. One Scottish, one English. I’m Scottish so it’s allowed, there’s no other reason anyone would support anything Scottish football related. Whatever it is I do spend an awful lot of time with my head in some kind of football related world. It could be that this is inspired by my team losing the derby today against our fiercest and most loathed knuckledragging right wing unionist rivals. Bastards. I think I’ve mentioned in the past that I despise Rangers with a passion and feel angry hatred towards them. This is part irrational and it’s a remarkable thing to experience and recognise within me when I like to think myself so rational and calm ordinarily. Note the like to think there. Anyway we lost and I’m not happy about it. My other team aren’t doing much better. Now may be the moment to do something extreme.

There have been days in the past where I’ve not allowed myself any technology until noon, or none all day at all. In those days I go without, I find by early evening I’ve done so much and been so productive that genuinely I’ve run out of things to do. How technology takes up so much of our day is quite worrying. But it’s not the phone or the laptop because I can make a call or do some work, it’s the things that we allow ourselves to be distracted on with these things. Facebook doesn’t really take up too much of my time but I can easily sit for two hours immersed in all things football; the latest news, gossip and whatever other click-bait I come across.

The idea may have been inspired by me being annoyed at losing but I thought about giving up football for a year. Absolutely no news, gossip or even games. That would be extreme but what I was curious about was what I would do to fill the time that everything football takes up. That excited me. But it’s also perhaps a bit too extreme, and unnecessarily so. Let’s say I only watched the games and nothing else. That would be less than four hours of the week taken up which really is very little. Imagine not knowing anything that has happened leading up to it, whether a player is injured or even whether the coach has been sacked. So perhaps the hour leading up to kick off and the half hour after as the result is digested. Get the team news and find out what’s going on prior to kick off like people did before twenty-four hour everything. Even then that’s a maximum seven hours a week. I am in no doubt that there will have been times that I spent that much time doing football stuff in one day alone.

The thing is that football itself isn’t bad or a waste of time, it does serve a purpose. Everything around it these days seems to be the thing that causes the problems. It has become a soap opera. Who needs Eastenders when you’ve got public rows between players and managers or whatever nonsense the media create and inflame. I don’t know if I’m ready to do it though but I want to. As much as anything I want to do it to see if both I can and what will happen, as in what will the outcome be in regards all that extra time I find myself with. If I can do this blog everyday for over eleven months I’m sure I can challenge myself to a new game of discipline. Which is what it all comes down to. This writing is about finding the discipline to do something while that would be about finding the discipline to deny something, or more positively, to do something else. It’s actually quite an exciting prospect. I’ll need a new challenge once this finishes in about four weeks after all.

Philosophy Now’s Question Of The Month

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In the earliest days of this daily thing I’m doing, this experiment shall we say, I made suggestions for things I would write about. One suggestion was to answer a question from a magazine I subscribe to and don’t read enough of, Philosophy Now. It involves an evil and confusing question roughly every two issues which means four months and I think I may have answered one at some point on here although I think I didn’t give much of a shit to make it decent as I knew I had missed the deadline for entering. This one though I’m going to enter. I’ll still write it on here in my usual half arsed and rushed way first though just aware that I’ll be sending it in too.

Does History Progress? If so, to what?

Time certainly progresses. I feel slightly older today than I did yesterday. Of this I am fairly sure, or at least I have convinced myself of this truth. In that case yesterday is now history and the day before yesterday is older history. Yesterday though, the day before wasn’t as old as it is now. However is that history progressing, it still feels the same now as it did yesterday just a little fuzzier. Perhaps it’s evolving but that’s my memory that’s evolving not necessarily history itself.

What is history though if not just a series of memories. Even the version we write down only captures one take on events and that is open to interpretation. What happens when this version loses it’s appeal, the fashions of the modern age deciding they don’t like the historical narrative and give an event a new one. Surely then it has progressed to something new. Again it has evolved, but does that mean it has progressed. We must looked then at our understanding of the meaning of progress. To advance, to go forward. These are positive notions surely but histories changes don’t always feel positive, advanced or even evolved sometimes. What happens when they go sideways or backwards. Hitler made changes to the history of his country while he was in power, did they progress? For him they did, but now history would suggest otherwise.

So history can make subjective progress? Again that’s a version of an event. Objective history on the other hand cannot, but then we can’t say there is such a thing as objective history. It is only ever a story and someone must always be around to tell that story. So subjectively history progresses, but to what? I guess that depends on whatever the subject decides they want it to. Or we just accept it will always change into an infinite amount of possibilities and the change itself can subjectively be called progress. Not in the moving forward sense of course but in the something other than it was five minutes ago sense.

And that is my answer. I find them quite challenging if that’s not clear by now. I’m sure the one I did before was a little bit of a ramble with too many rhetorical questions too. I suspect rhetorical questions are not always a good thing, or at least too many of them. The other approach is to make it dry and over explain but you’ve only got a maximum of four hundred words and the other answers people tend to send in are not formed in that way. Like everything it is simply practise, everything is always practise.

A Piece For Posterity

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When all this is done I’ll probably print these out for myself and save them somewhere. I generally don’t read much of what I’ve written after reading them but one day will sit down and remind myself of how my mind has been thinking this year. I have tried not to just talk about myself and what I’m up to. I’ve tried also not to write too much about politics or whats going on in the world. I thought writing about football could be fun but thought better of doing it here too often. What is interesting about writing everyday though is not necessarily seeing what interests you on a daily basis but seeing what the mind gets caught up on for a period of time.

When Covid-19 started to become a thing I could barely think of anything else to write about for weeks. When our government has been at it’s worst and most corrupt they will be my focus for a week or so. I’ve stopped writing about these people though because their incessant self-serving bullshit provides something new on a daily basis. I’m just bored of being outraged about them, nothing of consequence happens and the following day there’s another scandal that gets brushed under the carpet and forgotten about. Currently I’m perhaps a little too focused on the fact I’m having a little change in my own life.

I mention all this because when I do look back on this one day in the future, I would like to remind myself of today. I moved out. Yesterday I mentioned my hoarding. Today I really discovered that filth can build up in ten months in some hidden places if you’re not regularly cleaning things. I would generally keep on top of things but rarely did I give much a deep clean. Even the fridge was disgusting and genuinely I didn’t even recognise anything until I emptied it and starting cleaning. We simply don’t see things until they’re pointed out, then they become impossible not to see. Why too do we only give flats a good clean when we’re leaving and not able to appreciate living in the cleanliness.

It has been a long day then. I’m back now at my parents for a week as I sort out a few things before heading off. It’ll probably end up being quite busy week here too but a different busy. And I should probably add that I’m also giving this quite uninteresting update because I want to remember the day I was exhausted and discovered late at night just before writing this, having a bath and going to bed, that I accidentally have one of the delivery van keys and I may have to drive over an hour to get it to them. How many times do we leave somewhere or think we’ve finished something and somehow we find ourselves back in it. Even if they do find a spare, which is why it is still ‘may have to’ drive and not definitely drive, I’ll still have to go down tomorrow. This I can live with. It will ruin my first actual day off in months but that is infinitely more tolerable than going off now when I’m struggling to keep my eyes open and can only think of bed. How I love my bed.

The Elusive Secrets Of Writing

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Writing really is an art form once you get into it and understand it’s intricacies. What I am doing now is writing, that is surely obvious and it is one particular style of writing. I’m not entirely sure what style and while I hope that isn’t me exposing how little I understand of writing intricacies, I’m going to go with it being hard to explain and label your own style. That is probably just me making excuses of course as I’m self-conscious of describing my writing, especially if I get it wrong in the eyes of those who know. The reason I go into this is that I have started reading For Whom The Bell Tolls by Ernest Hemingway. I mentioned a few days ago when finishing The Old Man & The Sea that his writing style is very simple but that he manages to purvey a deeper meaning and understanding. While some write in technically complicated and convoluted ways he manages to get an equally deeper understanding across without turning the reader in circles first.

This is an art form in itself. For anyone who has ever written anything or appreciated others writing, getting deeper meaning and mood across is a challenging art. As I read this latest book though it does make me think of authors who write in similar simple prose yet write really badly. His writing is so simple but he does in it such a way that it is both accessible and with depth in the same moment. I’m not entirely sure how he does it though, it can’t just be short sentences. It is one of those books they teach children in school and it is clear to see why. Deeper meaning and accessible is a winner. There is a reason he won the Pulitzer Prize and Nobel Prize for Fiction after all.

I mentioned earlier about long and convoluted sentences. Here I must hold my hands up and confess my guilt. In my defence I learnt how to write like this when studying part of my philosophy degree in that you need to make sure every angle of meaning is covered. The problem here is that it doesn’t allow the reader to form any interpretation for themselves and such long sentences can be both hard to follow and boring. There’s a website called The Hemingway App in which you can upload your work and see what reading age and grade it would be. It also gives advice on shortening sentences, whether sentences are hard or very hard to read and such things like excessive use of adverbs, passive voice or when simpler words would be better suited. I use too many adverbs for example and too many of my sentences are ‘hard’ or ‘very hard’ to read. My ego would like to think hard or very hard to read simply means they are written to a very high standard and level but my ego can miss the point sometimes. Up to this moment this piece is a Grade Nine which would be 14-15 year old’s. I rarely use this app but when I first discovered it did check out a few of my pieces for curiosity’s sake. I had a Grade Fourteen which I was very happy with myself over but generally they vary between Grades Eight to Eleven. Apparently we should aim for eight to nine if we want maximum reach. I don’t really know whether I want maximum reach but a fool would dismiss the importance of such knowledge. I hope not to be a fool forever.

Final Mark – Grade Eight

https://youtu.be/yTcS6_1MfHA