write.as/jonbeckett

The rest of the family are sitting in the lounge, watching “The Polar Express”. I'm sitting in the study (read:junk room) writing this. I've just finished the cheap bottle of Sherry I bought from the supermarket last weekend, and eaten two rows off the gargantuan bar of Dairy Milk that the garage was selling a few days ago. I'm not quite sure how their “offers” happen – occasionally they have a box full of massive chocolate bars by the counter, at half price or less. I've never bought one before – which also explains why I still have some teeth.

I've left the chocolate bar in the lounge – I don't expect to find any by the time the movie finishes. I might have to peel the kids off the ceiling.

I'm tired. Properly tired. As soon as I've finished writing this I might sneak off to bed and read a book. I've got a huge pile of books on my bedside table – mostly bought in recent months while walking past book shops. Actually, that's wrong, isn't it – I didn't “walk past”. One cannot simply “walk past” a bookshop – not if it's open. I've taken to avoiding the entire street where the bookshop is, to avoid getting myself into debt, or to avoid the book mountain falling on me in the middle of the night.

Imagine trying to explain on a life insurance claim that a pile of un-read books fell on you.

I've been informed that I'm escorting my younger daughters into town tomorrow – to acquire coffee shop gift cards for teachers. Rather than buy their school teachers chocolates, they are getting them vouchers for coffee at the local coffee shop. This of course means we will be in the coffee shop – which works just like a book shop – if you go in, you kind of have to buy a coffee, and a piece of flapjack, then sit for an hour people watching. I'm pretty sure it's all compulsory.

Perhaps I'll go make a hot drink now – a night cap. I wonder why they call drinks “night caps” ? It's not like you're going to wear the drink on your head, is it.

After sliding into anonymity in recent months, I realised this week that my problem isn't with blogging platforms themselves – my problem is me.

Perhaps it would help if I explain – and warn you in advance that this is one of those explanations where the entire post goes sideways for a while, before hopefully finding it's way back.

The famous hosted blogging platforms – Wordpress, Tumblr, Medium, and LiveJournal (yes, people still use LiveJournal) have become social networks. I hesitate to call them walled gardens, because they can be opened to the world – it's just that they have polished the experience for fellow members of their own platform so much that it becomes an effort to step outside.

It's easy to fall into the same trap that so many have done with their political views in the last few years – mistaking the concordant voices in the algorithmic timeline that surrounds them for “everybody”. Little by little, each platform becomes an increasingly remote island.

More by accident than design, Blogger has avoided such a fate. There was the whole “Google+” escapade, but that's been rolled back and swept from the history books now.

Anyway.

Why was it such a mistake for me to publish my writing to a utopian blogging platform with wonderful commenting, liking, following, and subscription features? Because of all of those things – I spent my time commenting, liking, following, and subscribing – and progressively less time writing. With a foot in two or three of the social camps, the “time to write” rapidly turned into a few minutes late at night. Even worse, the visible manifestation of likes, comments, and faux popularity began to distort the words I might share – subliminally causing me to write what I thought others might want to read, rather than what I wanted to write.

It stops today.

I have returned to my roots – posting my words to a slightly crappy blogging platform outside of the smooth, polished, incestuous world of the tent-pole social blogging destinations. Just my words – no stock photos, no re-blogs, no guest posts, and no references to anybody or anything else. Just me.

I'll get off my soap-box now, and go put the kettle on.

This rather labyrinthine story begins the night before last, when the children decided – after I had already washed up, and cleared the kitchen – that it would be a good idea to do some “Christmas Baking”. It transpired that “Christmas Baking” really translated to “use every damn pot, pan, baking tray, saucepan, spoon, fork, knife, or whatever the hell else, and leave it all out”. I ran away and hid – happy in the knowledge that the children were making happy noises in the kitchen, and fearful of what I might discover in the morning.

It's probably worth noting that I had to be at work early the next morning, so got out of the shower, got dressed, and left without even looking at the kitchen.

Fast forward through a typically breathless working day (read: spent headbutting the desk, and wringing my fist furiously at the laptop), and I returned home in the early evening to an unfolding conflict in the middle of the kitchen. No washing up had happened, nothing had been put away, and now Miss 15 appeared to be trying to make something to eat in the middle of the devestation. When she helpfully asked my other half “what's for dinner?”, I thought it best to retreat to a safe distance and start looking for hard hats and sandbags. Of course I didn't DO that – I walked through the middle of everybody, and quietly started washing up. I might have said a number of words under my breath too.

Where was I going with this?

Oh yes. After washing up, eating dinner, and then washing up again, I snuck off to the junk room to grab an hour of peace and quiet. While noodling around on Twitter, a writer I follow posted someething about a writing community that was blowing up – and that's how I found quite possibly the best internet rabbit hole I have discovered in quite some time.

I'm not entirely sure how these things happen – how the tides of the internet work. I'm guessing somebody posted a hashtag while efusing about their circle of online friends, and it caught on – and then their friends posted it, and their friends, and so on – before long it became a flag to post in the ground, signalling to kindred spirits that among the millions pouring through the social internet, “we are here”.

This chance discovery was made within Twitter – the #writingcommunity hashtag. I lost the better part of the next hour reading, smiling, following, liking, and replying. Somehow in the most basic of all the social networks, a community had formed itself – you might almost say it had evolved. I think it's kind of wonderful that such a thing might have happened – that in the middle of the political hellscape that Twitter has become in recent years, a well-spring of ordinary folk have brought each other together.

Go check it out. Head to Twitter, and search for #writingcommunity – be warned that you might not get anything done for quite some time afterwards though.

While scrolling through Twitter earlier this evening, I stumbled upon a random question – “Write three words that describe your style of writing”. Almost without hesitation, I wrote “Automatic, Idiotic, Necessary”. Then I started writing this post about it, and realised I should have written “unplanned” instead of “idiotic” – partly because I know people will jump on me for claiming my writing is “idiotic”, but also because I tend to think of it being idiotic in the same light as unplanned – or rather, I don't plan, and you might argue that not planning is idiotic. Maybe. I'm probably not making much sense.

The idea of automatic writing appeals to me – the act of sitting down and just letting the words go without any forethought. I'm kind of doing now I suppose – not really thinking much further than the next half a sentence. I wonder if we all do that while we are writing? How far ahead has our brain really worked, before telling our fingers to type this, that, or the other? I fear mine doesn't travel very far ahead at all.

The idea of writing being necessary in some way is appealing too. If I didn't empty my head into the keyboard, what would happen to all the thoughts, memories, ideas, and stories I have recorded? Would I even remember they happened? While out and about I often think of things to write about, then castigate myself later in the day when I realise that all I can remember is there was something I wanted to write about – but the actual thing has gone.

Anyway.

I'm sitting in the junk room at home, wondering where the day went. The clock is already ticking past 9pm. It does that – it just keeps ticking, no matter what you do. It's quite annoying sometimes. All I seem to have done this evening is wash up – there was lots of Christmas cooking going on in the kitchen last night, and then I had to leave for work early this morning. The end result was a scene of devastation this evening not seen around these parts for many years.

I was going to read a book this evening – and then started reading twitter – and then started writing this. I really am my own worst enemy.

I’m back in the office today, and determinedly taking a break over lunch rather than work straight though. It’s a terrible habit – working straight through – but something that has been borne out of necessity over the last two or three years. One project after another has landed on my desk – usually with unrealistic timescales and expectations. It doesn’t help that I repeatedly bust my arse to give people what they want, rather than draw a line.

I will admit to stressing out every so slightly while walking to work this morning – wondering what might be waiting in my email in-box. In the end there were only 41 emails – and half of them were marketing rubbish. I’m not on many mailing lists – I tend to avoid them, and unsubscribe where I can.

After the inevitable “how are you” conversations with co-workers, I settled down and started working through things – responding to emails, filling in timesheets, wandering down with a co-worker for a conference call with a client – all the usual things. It’s funny – when somebody asks “what do you do for a living?”, and you respond with “I’m a software developer”, I bet they never expect that the majority of your work is actually talking to people, sending emails, sitting in on meetings, and so on. Yes, sometimes you can go for weeks working on source code, but invariably it’s all the usual things you would associate with an office job.

I forgot to throw the bullet journal in my bag this morning, so have an old notebook on my desk – now filled with scribbled notes about things that have happened so far today, and things to do tomorrow.

Somehow it’s already heading towards mid-afternoon. How does that even happen ?

I'm back in the office today, and determinedly taking a break over lunch rather than work straight though. It's a terrible habit – working straight through – but something that has been borne out of necessity over the last two or three years. One project after another has landed on my desk – usually with unrealistic timescales and expectations. It doesn't help that I repeatedly bust my arse to give people what they want, rather than draw a line.

I will admit to stressing out every so slightly while walking to work this morning – wondering what might be waiting in my email in-box. In the end there were only 41 emails – and half of them were marketing rubbish. I'm not on many mailing lists – I tend to avoid them, and unsubscribe where I can.

After the inevitable “how are you” conversations with co-workers, I settled down and started working through things – responding to emails, filling in timesheets, wandering down with a co-worker for a conference call with a client – all the usual things. It's funny – when somebody asks “what do you do for a living?”, and you respond with “I'm a software developer”, I bet they never expect that the majority of your work is actually talking to people, sending emails, sitting in on meetings, and so on. Yes, sometimes you can go for weeks working on source code, but invariably it's all the usual things you would associate with an office job.

I forgot to throw the bullet journal in my bag this morning, so have an old notebook on my desk – now filled with scribbled notes about things that have happened so far today, and things to do tomorrow.

Somehow it's already heading towards mid-afternoon. How does that even happen ?

While off work over the last several days, I've been quietly watching, reading, commenting, and liking posts across the various social platforms on the internet.

For the first few days it was fun – then as time passed the realisation hit me that watching the world happen around you is a poor substitute for taking part in the unfolding uncertainty of it all.

What was it that Dumbledore said?

“It does not do to dwell on dreams, and forget to live”.

After a morning spent sweeping the house for books, toys, games, and clothes that we don’t need or want any more, we visited one of the many charity shops in town to donate a number of huge bags. I would love to say we studiously chose the charity based on principles, beliefs, or some other worthy method. We chose whichever shop we could park nearest to.

The reason for clearing out so much stuff? Christmas has finally arrived in our house. After leaving the charity shop we drove across the nearby countryside to a farm that grows and sells Christmas Trees. After several years using an old artificial tree – the one I originally bought for my apartment, twenty years ago – it’s something of a novelty having a “real” tree this year.

The public-facing part of the farm consisted of a warehouse full of trees of various shapes and sizes, and an adjoining shop filled to the gunnels with quite wonderful decorations. While wandering around looking at the various Victorian themed displays, I wondered if the farm does something else for the rest of the year, or if all of their profits happen in December?

I’ve had very little to do with decorating the tree. While the living room was re-arranged by my other half and younger daughters, I walked into town with Miss 19 in search of a few bottles of something nice to drink. And that’s why I’m going to have a headache in the morning. I’ve drunk half a bottle of supermarket-own-brand Sherry this evening.

At some point over the next few days I need to start wrapping presents. My other half’s presents (that have arrived) are in boxes under the desk in the junk room. We haven’t bought each other much, so there’s not much to wrap up – it’s just one of those jobs that inevitably gets put off and put off, isn’t it. We all know that we’ll end up sitting up until 2am on Christmas Eve, wrapping stuff.

Anyway. Christmas has arrived in our house. The tree is up, and decorated. I’m guessing I’ll be tasked with taking all the decoration boxes back up to the attic in the morning. I’m suppose to be going for a run with our eldest too. Fingers crossed she gets out of bed before lunchtime.

I just watched the movie “Yesterday” – the romantic comedy about the guy that gets hit by a bus, and wakes up to a world where the Beatles never existed. I'm not going to write a capsule review, because the internet is full of them, but I am going to write about one particular piece of the movie.

Warning – spoilers ahead – if you've not seen the movie, don't read any more – trust me – it's worth not knowing, because it's probably the best bit of the entire movie.

So yes – when the lead character learns that other people remember the Beatles too, I wondered if the journey to the farm in the middle of nowhere might result in Paul McCartney opening the door. I was completely expecting it – and had stayed away from reviews, so had no clue what was going to happen.

It took a few moments to realise – that in the alternate reality of the story, John had never got famous, and was never shot – that he had lived his life in anonymity. It caught me completely off-guard. I just sat and marvelled at how fantastic Robert Carlisle's portrayal of John was. “All the feels”, as they say.

I didn't manage to get my eldest daughter to watch the movie, and I think it's kind of a shame. She loved Rocketman, but drew the line at a romantic comedy. I suppose the last thing she might ever take any notice of is her forty-something Dad telling her that the Beatles were the best songwriters we have ever known – that translates directly to “shit” in a teenage mind – without even listening.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go listen to “Something”, because THEY CUT IT FROM THE DAMN MOVIE! (and if the director ever reads this, the ending was rubbish – he should have sung “Something” to his friend in the crowd, instead of the convoluted rubbish you turned the last few minutes of the movie into).

p.s. Lily James can do no wrong :)

Today is the last day of my week off work – apart from the weekend, but that doesn't count really, does it? I'm spending the day at home listening to the washing machine, folding clothes, tidying up, and noodling around with things on the internet. I feel like I should be doing something with these days off, but then remember why I'm off work in the first place – trying to get better – trying to rest. Not doing things is difficult when you're used to chaos.

Yesterday evening I back-filled the last year's worth of blog posts into Tumblr. Every time I walk away from Tumblr I end up returning. I started looking around for a few of the people I used to follow, and realised how many have stopped writing. I found a list a while ago – on an old ZIP disk – of people who's blogs I used to follow – and realised that perhaps only one in ten of them is still posting.

I suppose it's easy to presume that blogging as I have known it – as a personal journal posted to the web – is almost dead. Maybe that's because I've been wandering along with my eyes shut though – maybe people ARE out there, sharing their lives – I'm just not looking for or noticing them. I visit the handful of people I have followed forever, and read their stories as you might a favourite book in a comfy old armchair.

I find reaching out stressful. I find writing the first comment on a blog I have just discovered incredibly difficult. Clicking a follow or like button – knowing the author will receive a notification – only increases the stress. Suddenly their gaze might fall on you, and you panic in anticipation – checking that your profile or about page isn't too horrendous – that your last post isn't overly dramatic, depressing, or idiotic.

Anyway. Friday's clock is ticking away, and I'm sitting here writing this rather than going to the corner shop to buy bacon to make promised sandwiches for lunch. Later.