So today the redhead sent me a link to this story about "trendfear" which seemed to be played out almost instantly in this piece about Franzen's Horror of The New.
The web and social networking have facilitated the production of massive amounts of data about personal, emotional, me-me-me stuff. And to those with a mind to analyse—which, let's face it, is most web developers* and marketers—it's a treasure trove of so called "market insight".
But I wonder about trends. Once upon a time we were encouraged to ignore the trend, to carve our own paths.
Sure, if you're a technopreneur, a digipreneur, an iBoss—aged 55 or 15—you probably need to consider trends. But on an ongoing basis? Through an app on your phone? Constantly? Check those freaking memes? Basing your thoughts or activities on what others think is good and ignoring what they don't?
People whine about The Youth of Today spending endless hours tweeting and texting, but really we should probably be thankful they/we're not frantically refreshing their/our feeds to see what's trending.
I'm no entrepreneur. But I'd like to counter the web's burgeoning Slavery to the Trend with an ages-old philosophy (call it a meme if you will): don't concern yourself at all with what others like or think is good. Choose your own adventures.
*Which reignites the burning question about how long the developer-driven nature of the web will continue to shape the web itself and the media around it in such lopsided ways. But that's a bigger question for a chattier time.
Tuesday, January 31, 2012
Monday, January 23, 2012
The price of freedom
I know, and you know, that I would never write something like this without having some other something up my sleeve. You can't go around telling people reality's overrated unless you're willing to put your money where your mouth is. Even I, with my dim social awareness, know this to be true.
Well, how's $1274 sound? That's the cost of my flight to seismically dubious and stylistically sensational SF via the bubbling mud pits, fuming vents, and effervescent geysers of Rotorua. That's the cost of fantasy. That's a small portion of the price of freedom. That's the plan.
To be honest with you, this is just the cranking up a notch of my continual restlessness. I won't be on holiday—I'll be working while I'm gone. I will drink fantastical cocktails at every opportunity, but I'll also be tied to reality via email, deadlines, and deliverables.
Still, it's far, far better than nothing. I have a few other tricks up my ample sleeves, but this seems enough for now.
Well, how's $1274 sound? That's the cost of my flight to seismically dubious and stylistically sensational SF via the bubbling mud pits, fuming vents, and effervescent geysers of Rotorua. That's the cost of fantasy. That's a small portion of the price of freedom. That's the plan.
To be honest with you, this is just the cranking up a notch of my continual restlessness. I won't be on holiday—I'll be working while I'm gone. I will drink fantastical cocktails at every opportunity, but I'll also be tied to reality via email, deadlines, and deliverables.
Still, it's far, far better than nothing. I have a few other tricks up my ample sleeves, but this seems enough for now.
Tuesday, January 17, 2012
[lighter than death]
[it was that dead time of night: the time when all good farmers had had dinner and were safely ensconced in vinyl lounges watching reality tv; the time when the stray cats are quiet and even the night birds aren't ready to talk.
The road was empty and the verge smelled of dead grass, of dry grass and silence and dust.
To the east stood the sodium-lit roundabout, aglow in the warm dark. To the west, a black cloud stretched away beyond the hills to an imagined coast, a place of wrecks and craggy loneliness, of seafoam in the lungs.
A black breeze teased the black leaves; a car swung down a distant road and the lights from the house scattered pebbles like coals among the graveled shoulder of the tarmac.
This was what it was to be here, complete: to not want.
All that mattered was to stay on this verge, watching for the blacker-than-black shadow of a slumbering steer by the fenceline; listening to the car, which drew no closer; and feeling the wind play in the folds of my dress—feeling lighter than light, and lighter than death]
The road was empty and the verge smelled of dead grass, of dry grass and silence and dust.
To the east stood the sodium-lit roundabout, aglow in the warm dark. To the west, a black cloud stretched away beyond the hills to an imagined coast, a place of wrecks and craggy loneliness, of seafoam in the lungs.
A black breeze teased the black leaves; a car swung down a distant road and the lights from the house scattered pebbles like coals among the graveled shoulder of the tarmac.
This was what it was to be here, complete: to not want.
All that mattered was to stay on this verge, watching for the blacker-than-black shadow of a slumbering steer by the fenceline; listening to the car, which drew no closer; and feeling the wind play in the folds of my dress—feeling lighter than light, and lighter than death]
Monday, January 16, 2012
Real life: overrated
Recently, my life has reverted to the kind of fantasy for which I, frankly, exist.
Real life is overrated. You've probably noticed this. I know what you're thinking: "yeah, but you have to face up to it, you know? It's unavoidable."
Blah blah. In my books, that attitude shows nothing but a dearth of imagination. Yes, there are difficulties and challenges. But surely fantasy is the ideal way to overcome that?
Example? Travel, which, let's face it, is like taking a trip into a storybook—a journey through all those rarified imaginings that started when you were five.
Another one? Fun. Riding a horse, sailing a boat, dipping into the warm waters of a palm-fringed beach, making a cocktail, eating chocolates in bed, playing the piano so hard you think you're going to break it. All the things you wished you could do all the time when you were young—they're the kind of fantasy I'm talking about.
Maybe I'm just easy to please. Or maybe you're just not looking at things the right way. In any case, I encourage you to come to the dark side: see life as a fantasy.
Better still, make it one.
Real life is overrated. You've probably noticed this. I know what you're thinking: "yeah, but you have to face up to it, you know? It's unavoidable."
Blah blah. In my books, that attitude shows nothing but a dearth of imagination. Yes, there are difficulties and challenges. But surely fantasy is the ideal way to overcome that?
Example? Travel, which, let's face it, is like taking a trip into a storybook—a journey through all those rarified imaginings that started when you were five.
Another one? Fun. Riding a horse, sailing a boat, dipping into the warm waters of a palm-fringed beach, making a cocktail, eating chocolates in bed, playing the piano so hard you think you're going to break it. All the things you wished you could do all the time when you were young—they're the kind of fantasy I'm talking about.
Maybe I'm just easy to please. Or maybe you're just not looking at things the right way. In any case, I encourage you to come to the dark side: see life as a fantasy.
Better still, make it one.
Tuesday, January 10, 2012
The tally
Today marks the tenth day of my 12-day hermitage. Work has the better of me. I came home from town on January 1, and since then I have:
*I have also written an ebook, two articles and the content for two websites, but that's hardly the point here.
- seen exactly three humans I know personally
- in exactly two outings
- which were the only times I dressed in something other than ugg boots.
- ~129 emails
- of which 25 weren't work-related
- of which 15 did not relate to the two outings mentioned above
- and of which only one was longer than three sentences, and/or remotely interesting.
- finished Dexter Season 5
- started Twin Peaks Season 1
- watched one Alfred Hitchock film (Rope)
- finished one book and countless New Scientists
- downloaded one album and around 10 podcasts
- listened to music endlessly.
- gone stir-crazy.
*I have also written an ebook, two articles and the content for two websites, but that's hardly the point here.
As one book closes...
Scene: int. bedroom, 3am. A light burns dimly by the bed. An empty whisky glass stands on the floor beside it. There among the grim black sheets lies a woman, The Heart of the Matter in hand, trying valiantly to read through a flood of tears: Scobie is about to kill himself.
So, yeah, last night, things got kind of rough. I'm glad it's over. I'm glad the moment passed. Because Jesus, and I'm talking to Graham Greene's Scobie's Jesus here, between him and King Ink, I've been taking a tour of the darker reaches the past few nights. Dante's Inferno is starting to seem like a frolic by comparison.
Ah. But let us turn our thoughts to the goodness that is finishing a book that tears you apart: the goodness that is the next read.
As one book closes, so another must open. If the last one's put me through the wringer, I like to be kind to myself with the next. So, what's the coming attraction?
Lawrence Durrell's The Dark Labyrinth.
Despite appearances—Durrell's got such a reputation for literary hijinks, and the title's certainly daunting enough—The Dark Labyrinth really is a rollicking tale of humanity cast in the setting of a Greek island holiday tour to an ancient series of underground tunnels. I'm not talking Dante's rollicking, I'm talking blatantly-humorous-holiday-reading rollicking.
I know you don't believe me. No one does. Everyone's scarred by The Alexandria Quartet and never goes any further. In any case, the point is that in books, as in life, after the great challenge and the mighty test of strength must, by necessity, come the period of recuperation in warm waters like Durrell's Greek isles. Or Capote's south. Or—yes—even Dante's vivid and fantastical Hades.
If only hell were more like Dante's vision, and less like Greene's, damn him.
So, yeah, last night, things got kind of rough. I'm glad it's over. I'm glad the moment passed. Because Jesus, and I'm talking to Graham Greene's Scobie's Jesus here, between him and King Ink, I've been taking a tour of the darker reaches the past few nights. Dante's Inferno is starting to seem like a frolic by comparison.
Ah. But let us turn our thoughts to the goodness that is finishing a book that tears you apart: the goodness that is the next read.
As one book closes, so another must open. If the last one's put me through the wringer, I like to be kind to myself with the next. So, what's the coming attraction?
Lawrence Durrell's The Dark Labyrinth.
Despite appearances—Durrell's got such a reputation for literary hijinks, and the title's certainly daunting enough—The Dark Labyrinth really is a rollicking tale of humanity cast in the setting of a Greek island holiday tour to an ancient series of underground tunnels. I'm not talking Dante's rollicking, I'm talking blatantly-humorous-holiday-reading rollicking.
I know you don't believe me. No one does. Everyone's scarred by The Alexandria Quartet and never goes any further. In any case, the point is that in books, as in life, after the great challenge and the mighty test of strength must, by necessity, come the period of recuperation in warm waters like Durrell's Greek isles. Or Capote's south. Or—yes—even Dante's vivid and fantastical Hades.
If only hell were more like Dante's vision, and less like Greene's, damn him.
Monday, January 9, 2012
Killer Lines
For your reading pleasure, kind friends, I have reinvented the Twitter account of a fictional character I created for an experiment.
Before? Fictional character.
Now? @_killerlines.
Killer lines will include, well, ah, killer lines from killer books. Books I love. If you want to take them as thoughts for the day, so be it. As distraction from work? Fine. As reading suggestions? Highly appropriate. As messages sent direct to you from a god you don't believe in? Well, hey, don't let me stop you.
Warning: Killer Lines is likely to reflect my reading practices closely. And I'm a slow reader.
Before? Fictional character.
Now? @_killerlines.
Killer lines will include, well, ah, killer lines from killer books. Books I love. If you want to take them as thoughts for the day, so be it. As distraction from work? Fine. As reading suggestions? Highly appropriate. As messages sent direct to you from a god you don't believe in? Well, hey, don't let me stop you.
Warning: Killer Lines is likely to reflect my reading practices closely. And I'm a slow reader.
Thursday, January 5, 2012
Wednesday, January 4, 2012
Note to self #6859465
There should be a lot of dead things in those initial chapters. And scenes should start with a detail of something on the ground. Shit self-esteem means looking down a lot, right?
Tuesday, January 3, 2012
Today I made...
Today I made a book.
Actually, it took two days to put the thing together, and months of planning and making and transcribing interviews. And it's not going to get past 20,000 words—an ebook, no less.
But this is satisfying work: to start with a blank page, and to build something. To build something.
In this little book, there are conversations. There are ideas and suggestions and fuel for anyone's fire. Anyone's. I mean, the topic we're discussing isn't a challenge that I, personally, am facing. Yet the talk is inspiring, the ideas are sound.
And with each chapter, I recalled the interview itself. It really was a delight to speak to these ten people—most of whom were in far-off lands, and most of whom I will never meet.
But what fun those hours were, even though I was trying to keep my questions short and to the point. Even though I was worried about the sound quality. Even though I was doubtful of my "expertise" and my accent.
The thing is, whether you're interviewing someone over Skype for the first time, or you're starting with a nice, white piece of paper and building it into a cool 50, there is a pleasure in the work—a satisfaction in making something from, apparently, nothing.
There is magic in taking the intangible—a thought—and telling it to someone else.
Or, as I hope in this case, some thousands of someone elses.
Actually, it took two days to put the thing together, and months of planning and making and transcribing interviews. And it's not going to get past 20,000 words—an ebook, no less.
But this is satisfying work: to start with a blank page, and to build something. To build something.
In this little book, there are conversations. There are ideas and suggestions and fuel for anyone's fire. Anyone's. I mean, the topic we're discussing isn't a challenge that I, personally, am facing. Yet the talk is inspiring, the ideas are sound.
And with each chapter, I recalled the interview itself. It really was a delight to speak to these ten people—most of whom were in far-off lands, and most of whom I will never meet.
But what fun those hours were, even though I was trying to keep my questions short and to the point. Even though I was worried about the sound quality. Even though I was doubtful of my "expertise" and my accent.
The thing is, whether you're interviewing someone over Skype for the first time, or you're starting with a nice, white piece of paper and building it into a cool 50, there is a pleasure in the work—a satisfaction in making something from, apparently, nothing.
There is magic in taking the intangible—a thought—and telling it to someone else.
Or, as I hope in this case, some thousands of someone elses.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)