Tag Archives: blogging

Two more years?

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15

Unlikely.

Why the negativity? Well, I am celebrating my two-year blogiversary in classic Irish Mammy style.

This is how the routine usually works:

Me: Fancy going to that Cliff Richard Tribute show?
My Mother: When is it on?
Me: March… eh…2018.
MM: Ah, maybe, if I’m still around then.

Not really. She’s strictly a Sinatra woman.

So yeah, two years as a German truck-driver called Claus masquerading as a put-upon middle-aged Irish woman. Here are my stats:

Anticipated benefits from blogging before starting:
Substitute for a hobby 24%
Releasing internal monologues/dialogues 25 %
Staving off hunger/anxiety 51%

Marathon, black silhouettes of runners on the sunset

Wouldn’t you think they’d get themselves a real hobby

Actual benefits derived from blogging:
Substitute for a hobby 2%
Staving off hunger/anxiety 3%
Getting lost in the moment 15%
Releasing internal monologue/dialogues 80%

Prevailing feelings while actually blogging:
Slight mortification. Seriously, who is going to read this shite? 10%
The lethal combination of confidence and righteousness.
Seriously, I don’t think this is half-bad, even if I say so myself 20%
Bono really is an insufferable wanker 21%
Hunger 22%
Reasonable contentment from the distraction of concentrating on the moment in manner similar to following a recipe. Mixing ingredients requires the usually elusive present-moment thinking. Especially when those ingredients include righteousness and verbosity. 27%

Prevailing feelings directly after blogging*:
Slight mortification. Seriously, who is going to read this shite? 50%
The lethal combination of confidence and righteousness. Seriously, who is..etc. 50%
*before typos discovered two weeks later, if at all

The blogger I’ll never be but love others for being:
Themed or focused
Curator of an engaging and lively comments section
Non-anonymous

Reasons for going anonymous:
To hide from Bono’s ‘people’
Getting to play with more than one persona than if I went with one public version
The freedom of unrestricted thinking and motivation
Sometimes I’m not quite sure

The downsides of being anonymous:
Enabling unrestricted freewheeling that leaves a spaghetti junction of thoughts and themes, which lets a few in but shut plenty out. Probably.

Most Delicate blogging balancing acts:
Earnestness with lightness
Eating with typing
Reading others with not giving up
Truth with truth*
Meaning with understanding
*Duplicate words. Please complete as instructed

Not a mistake. One woman’s joke is another’s man’s truth. Searing honesty comes in more than one size. Naked words on a page might do it for one; but the treasures of what lies between the words of other bloggers can often pull a mightier punch.

Any final comments?
Thanks for reading

How to decrease your readership in 10 easy steps

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10

*sound of footsteps legging it*

Use reader repellent post titles, obviously.

Have a gradual public breakdown, that’s not quite sure whether it’s an actual breakdown, or just one of one’s personae looking for a way out.

Periodically compose an irrational rant against Bono/parenting/Norn Iron.

Why use 10 words when 1,000 will do?

Only use questions rhetorically, OK? It breaks up the tedium.

Alienate yourself from your new or potential blogging mates by forgetting to do the small-talk and getting a bit too relaxed on the sofa of their comments section with your coat still on. Put your feet up too soon and on your head be those pursed lips. It’s OK, bumping into each other in a mutual blogger friend’s comment section loses its awkwardness after a while.

*re-reads last point* Don’t make an iota of sense if at all possible.

Forget any sort of theme, anyway.

Or having a name that conveys any meaning.

*echo*

Actually, just the nine will do.

🙂

What to give the special blogger in your life this Christmas

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14

It’s that time of year again when I recycle another blog post three of the five of you have read before. I wonder how many blog posts have started with that opening line. It is that time of year again so I’m fucked if I’m going to deviate from tradition on this one. That’s right. When you get to spend quantity time with extended family before retreating from the trauma to cocoon yourself from the dispirited this Christmas. Time to kick back and tuck into a box-set without fear of the suggestion of watching just one more episode being rejected on the grounds of having to rise for work in the morning. When you can recline and adjust the volume levels to ensure compatibility with the symphony of your snacking; occasionally glancing at your couch companion with deep resentment as he pops open a tube of Pringles. Vital dialogue has been missed, subtle plot lines overlooked, and many a murderous thought hatched to the pneumatic chomp of them. You’ve only yourself to blame for the tortilla nights.

But you dare not complain. Apart from giving off more than a mild whiff of unreasonableness, you’ve already demonstrated your own patience-defying feats with insistence you’ll be there in just a minute. That was half an hour ago but you are up to your delete button finishing a vital blog post. Sure, aren’t they all? “Yeah. I’m coming. Just a sec”. Ah the common refrain of the blogger, Mexican waving its way through the corridors of their domestic domains with mild irritation and an implied plea for flexibility for the writer (!) at work. Between on-the-spot responses to divine inspiration, and quick reads of others, the equivalent time of one episode has already been squandered  elapsed.

So, top of the list of the must-haves for the blogger this Christmas…

1. A Gift Voucher

The sneered at, but secretly loved, gift that demonstrates an attempt at effort. Might I suggest a custom made one for weekday night blogging curfew until 9pm. The perfect way to introduce some passive aggressive discipline to the influence the blogger has on your life. This way they’ll be finished by 9:30pm, if you’re lucky. Enough time to catch a few requisite episodes of nightly entertainment spanning political espionage/child abduction/drug underworld violence/serial killing sprees/killer vegetables etc. (delete as appropriate) before bed. Valid for 12 months.

gift card

This voucher cannot be exchanged for sex. 

2. Inspiration

A blogger is always poised to pillage your mishaps, forage your funny ways, and sell your soul. So be a good partner, and inspire them. Make it one of your New Year resolutions to apply yourself better to this task; mindful to always stay just on the right side of endearingly OCD, clumsy, forgetful, charming, irritated, psychotic etc. (delete as appropriate).

3. Mind-reading and silence

“Did I tell you my head went septic earlier and I nearly lost an arm?” If the answer from the blogger to your attempts at initiating conversation is “Sorry?”, that’s just code for “Look I’m in the middle of a really important thought, please be quiet for at least ten minutes”. And if you have to ask the blogger if they’d like a drink and/or some tortilla chips then you really don’t know him/her at all. Periodic snacks and a variation of warm and cold drinks are mandatory.

4. Encouragement

This might seem counter-intuitive if your ultimate aim is to contain this infectious disease and curb the influence of it on your partner’s duty of care to you/themselves/the family/the household etc.; but like all bloggers, they need validation. *Bruce Forsythe voice* And what does validation equal? Fuck knows. I haven’t thought about it till now. How about.. a need for even more validation? Either way, it won’t kill you. Don’t overdo it either with excessively flattering lines about converting their writing into something more lucrative and pointing out the bottomless pit of their talent. They’ll only believe you and blame you when it never happens. And eventually cotton-on to the intensity of your delusion being consistent with your lack of interest in going out for a night. “Don’t delay, Darling. Get to work on that novel. And fetch me some Pringles on your way through”. Hmmm.

5. Cold turkey

No. We don’t mean another round of sandwiches from the interminable seasonal bird. No, I’m not talking about Julie Andrews either. If the blogger is exhibiting signs of disinterest in the chocolate you leave by the keyboard, and unkempt hair, then it may be time to stage an intervention. Either lock the blogger or the computer up, so long as you keep them separate. The first three days are known to be the worst. A straight jacket is advisable here. Much thrashing about and ranting about stats will likely ensue. This is the mind re-adjusting. Lock all doors and windows to prevent the blogger from running away to an internet cafe, and remove their phone.

6. Your own blog

Alternatively, you could just join in. That way you can arrange the forthcoming week’s parenting/shopping/snack schedule through your respective comments sections.

A second opinion in the third person

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19

He reckons she could just continue doing it and post whenever she feels like it. Take a break for a while. No biggie. It shouldn’t be something she feels pressurised by. This is in response to her mentioning she was thinking of packing it in.  If the tagging stats for the year were presented according to her state of mind, it would likely be 80 per cent restless, 20 per cent bitter. No, make that 70 – 30. OK, 60 – 40. Wait! 60 – 30, 10 per cent hungry. Either way, all disgruntlement appears to be pointing towards the sign for get up off your arse. He’s stopped listening by this stage having retreated to twitter to dissect the final score with the brotherhood of football. She can’t bear to think what he’s posting after the carnage she witnessed last week. It was all very well taking him for better or worse, but those emoticons have to go. An image of a pair of thumbs lingers like a nasty flashback of the final scene from Carrie featuring The Fonz.

She’s not convinced he’s right. Why change the habit of a lifetime. Even if he was, she wouldn’t admit it that readily. She might casually mention it in a few days maybe; make it look like a random act of kindness. But he’s probably wrong. As much as she has always loved the sound of her own voice, the echo doesn’t answer back with the same agreeable ease. The other week she shouted Onob! and instead of it gleefully ricocheting off all corners of the screen, she heard a faint sigh of exasperation. The unmistakable cry of “Get over yourself” followed when she hit send on a poll post.  “Take the fucking bun!!!! You’ll enjoy it more!!!!!”.  Something has come undone. She would never use that many exclamation marks. Ever.

She’s hopeful she can turn things around but realises some blogging lifestyle changes are required as a matter of urgency. Embracing her existential crisis as a choice, no….a journey, could help mix it up. She’s already feeling an ancient Chinese proverb coming on. Morag, hit the mood lighting there, and down with the sunrise backdrop…

When sleeping women awake

Mountains will move

She tries to think of herself as more of a molehill. Or a grassy knoll. Then attempts to float into space. A space where she is free to externalise her life goals, to chart her progress. To guard her dreams and visions. This includes fitting into at least one item of clothing she possesses that might be fit for photography. Concentrating now..breathing in..and ..eh…breathing out…mastering the basics there.

Ten minutes later one eye is cocked open. It’s no good. She can’t concentrate. The music reminds her of getting her lip waxed and trying to sneak back to the car before she bumps into someone. Or worse still – someone she knows. She goes to the bathroom and is inspired to make another change. More photos would add to the variety and lighten things. Help colour in her personality. An opportunity to share her surroundings. OK, here goes:

toilet

The Our bathroom

Our? Oh no, I she worries she’ll never get these third person narratives together. What next? She needs to go shopping. But she hates shopping. And cooking. And inspirational quotes. The fucking tyranny of lifestyle, she thinks, before conceding (to herself) that he was indeed right. If there’s any life left in this old blogger, she’ll just have to ease up on it, and quit talking in the third person. Even if she sort of it enjoys it.

fonz

This writing life

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19

Under the influence of the need to embarrass her children, my Mother recently resurrected one of my early works from the annals of history for circulation over dinner. I guessed its vintage by the political incorrectness throughout. An ABC book featuring O for Oriental with an accompanying picture of a man who looks like he just wandered out of war-time Vietnam carries a certain social history. One that calls to mind Jim Davidson and other shivers. P is for papaya, whatever they were. P is also for Papal visit, which I can only guess inspired the first of many run-away notes. This one inscribed on the inside cover. I hadn’t mastered the letter e, but in unequivocal, if impaired terms, I instruct ‘Mammy, Daddy, and the Brothərs’ I’m leaving with the assurance I’ll be fine. I urge them to resist looking for me and continue about their business. This included “punching over” to watch Grange Hill, probably that very evening. Something distracted me and detonated a life-time habit of dramatic declarations of ambition followed by lengthy spells of sitting comfortably on my arse.

*************************

I watch The Killing Fields and weep uncontrollably. It’s possible I’ve been manipulated by John Lennon’s Imagine, but I resolutely declare my intention to be a journalist. Undoubtedly, I sit back down on my arse straight after. Having seen E.T., I am torn between becoming a war correspondent and a secret alien keeper. Since the brothers partly meet the criteria for the latter, I settle on the former.

*************************

The name’s Bond, Basildon Bond. My Mother writes with such fury on every pad that anyone receiving a letter other than one of our teachers can make out from the residual indentations I have been excused from P.E.. It runs through the pages like the watermark of exasperated parenting. “I regret M. is unable to attend class today due to illness”, an instruction I soon came to mass produce myself, including that tricky O in her name. Neither of us bank on me sliding the pad back in the drawer after composing a forensically detailed letter on my impending house party to a friend on her holidays. With it still firmly intact. Insert Munch’s Scream here. I remain in this catatonic state for days.

*************************

School’s out for summer and it’s my second working in the local newspaper. I’m unhappy with my hair in the photo accompanying my weekly column – a random ragbag of vox-pops, whimsical promotional pieces for the undiscerning tourist, and the occasional stab at incoherent thoughts on music. The scrapbook smells musty on purchase but it begins to incubate a series of dog-eared cut-outs hanging over the edge of its covers like untrimmed pastry. My ambitions for a career in journalism grow loftier with an ‘assignment’ to review the Michael Jackson gig in Cork, then wobblier as I spend much of it on a bathroom floor. Undeterred by cow-pats of nothingness strewn across my memory, I go on to confound myself with fanciful imaginings of Jackson “gliding through a milky-way of hits”, the only line I remember from events vaguely recalled. I was there though. Definitely. I think.

*************************

I sit nervously across from the course tutor as she leafs through my scrapbook. Her face inscrutable; occasionally interrupted by a slight nod. Or maybe the other side of her neck got tired. She enquires about the roughly produced papers towards the back. I explain my brief foray into independent publishing along with another. Only I didn’t know then that’s what is was called. An older man, though not by much. A socialist, who sought to pose alternative questions on the economic decay of our area. Only I didn’t know then that’s what he was called. I just went along with ‘weird’. The pair of us fancied ourselves as Citizen Smith acolytes. For a while it was all very Solidarność in our heads, but the overheads, together with naively executed plans, rendered it a brief, if mildly adventurous, venture. “Hmmm”, she responds in lieu of a response. I know now what she meant. She thanks me for travelling to meet with her. I start a week later.

*************************

The contributions to the local paper are sporadic now; the rare gig review being the height of it. The scrapbook disappeared a year ago in transit from one flat to another. It never gained weight, and I wriggle out of conversations that turn towards the sureties of seventeen. I learned the truth at seventeen (and a half) that certain classrooms were meant for study queens, and highly-motivated folk with clear-minded goals, who married their ambitions and then got hired.

*************************

Belfast has the jitters but I am in love. I am spotted strolling down the Ormeau Road hand-in-hand with him as we lick ice-creams in between the faces off each other. We are multi-skilled. The friend who spots me is around the corner in her living room watching the news. The first of two TV appearances (the other being in the audience of Questions & Answers some years later – I know, rock ‘n’ roll). I neglect to mention there are tensions intensifying behind us. But we don’t care. Some months later I attempt to end it (the affair, not the tension – that came later) and compose a lengthy letter promptly dropped through the letterbox. Luckily, the post office is in my home place so I’ve a better chance of retrieving it from the postmaster when I explain I think I’ve made a terrible mistake.

Retrieving the letter is a terrible mistake. It’s another five years before we painfully part during which time I take to writing interminable essays that address, among other things, journalistic practices in the North, and subsequently journalistic regimes much further afield. Propaganda – the machine that keeps on giving.

*************************

Ostensibly, a formal writing career lies long perished, but deadlines are always waiting to be buried. I enter writing competitions now with varying monetary prizes up for grabs for groups of people obliged to prove they need it most. My own wage depends in part on it, the poverty industry. Over the years, it is often impossible to distinguish the difference between the buzz from writing, from winning, and that from the prize bagged in the hope of it going towards some good. I’m no longer convinced that much of it does what it’s designed to do. I wonder if it’s the same for those who go on to carve out that writing career from blogging – where does personal ambition start and the merits of enquiry into much of what they write about begin? What came first – recreational blogging or the inevitable need to convert it into an income, or the self-belief that the writing truly befits one? We’re all writers now, of varying degrees of authenticity and motive.

Relief comes from slipping through portals minimised in the corner of the screen to worlds of strangers colliding in chat of passions. Music. Film. Top 5 Fantasies Involving Cheese. It gives way to unpicking a universal humdrum from which endless entertainment is derived. Keyboards convert into playgrounds for grown-ups who like to climb up words and slide down sentences. The apparatus for making modern connections.

A man regularly appears in the same one, casually leaning with one foot up against the yard wall, unassuming in the anorak he makes no apology for wearing. We take each other in, eventually circling one another with one-liners before discreetly booking a room in hotmail. We marry three years later.

*************************

I learned the truth that blogging is also meant for those who aren’t duty queens or kings, or high achievers with clear-eyed ambition, who married old, and feel somewhat retired. Back to a life with a scrapbook gathering dog-eared entries. A random ragbag of red-mist pops, whimsical pieces for the passer-through, and the occasional stab at incoherent thoughts on music. Only this time without any ambition attached. And that keeps my buzz real.

Thanks to whichever kind brethren among you who nominated this one for the Ireland Blog Awards. It was much appreciated.

typwriting

Now is the time for all good buns to come to the aid of the party

(Source: youtube)