Monday, November 21, 2005
Blogger, blogger - wherefore art thou blogger?
I've been watching from the sidelines (well, actually more ground-level side-profile, sort of like the effect one gets from lying prone on the floor after, ah, too many drinks) for a couple of weeks now and itching to pitch in my three thousand dollars worth, but refraining for fear of repercussions from her ferocious mongol(oid) hordes.. (joke! joke, people, joke! Cough)
Xena as always has beaten me to the punch, kick, and throw shiny metal hoop thingummy at hapless-foes' head move, but with characteristic terseness she also killed the issue with a massive deathblow then moved on to gushing about her doggy.
Reading this bloke's take on the issue (dated Wednesday, November 16, 2005) reignited the flames, and now the words are coming off my fingers faster than I can hold them back.
Quoted from Mercermachine's blog :
"Xiaxue: ?Everyone who blogs is a blogger??
MercerMachine: Yes, dear, by definition.
Xiaxue: ??first tell me your name.?
MercerMachine: My name is MercerMachine, honey.
Xiaxue: ?Is it Lumpy??
MercerMachine: Lumpy? Wtf? No, I just told you, it?s MercerMachine. If that?s too difficult to remember, you can call me MM, okay sweetiekins?
Xiaxue: ?So, Lumpy, if you can manage to swim half a lap without dying, is it right for me to call you ?Lumpy the swimmer???"
It seems wendy is completely missing the point. I suppose it's difficult when you're under imminent threat of being dethroned by someone taller, better looking, and not merely computer photoshopped, but word has it... photoshopped in life under the surgeons blade (it wasn't me I swear. I'd have given her bigger boobies) to keep a clear mind and argue with some semblance of lucidity.
But blogging... sheesh. Blogging is just putting words to blog. Teenagers do it, complete with IrRiTaTinG SMS Spk. Lovers post each other saccharrine-sweet (pui pui) bulletins on their ickle lovely postit blogs. Computer nerds write about technowonders they saw this week, and foodies rant about seventh gastronomic heaven and orgasmic oregano oil.
And you know what, Wendy? (and Wendy Mongolian Hordes?)
It's all blogging! Blogging isn't an artform. It's not a gift, and it doesn't require talent. It's hardly plastic surgery.
It's - as you put it once, jello. For the masses.
What you're alluding to -- blogging with pinache and savoir-faire, blogging with cutting-edge style and exuding talent from every pore, and magic with every word (think Bond, James Bond) :
that's called Writing.
And it doesn't cater to the masses at all. In the same way that Arthouse caters to an audience who have chosen to develop their appreciation of film - as opposed to B grade horror flicks which give us all a good laugh (but ultimately, at the end of the day - are washed away into the seas of history) - writing is for a select audience capable of appreciating the value and beauty of written thought... and blogging is for the lay person who knows only the utility of words, as a communication tool.
It's the difference between painting a picture at home, and being called upon to paint the sistine cathedral.
Or perhaps swinging a sword around - as opposed to fencing.
****
Everytime I - and several of my friends have read her describing herself as a "writer", we've just... made little faces, then let it slide. Washed away, by the tides of time, and more important thoughts like where to get dinner...
I once thought that perhaps if she actually harboured an interest in learning in words - she might just make a passable writer.
Now I wonder if she will ever truly transcend the prison she has built around herself - and to be fair, we reinforced it too by crowning her blog-queen extraordinaire.
Wendy is queen of the bloggers by dint of popularity.
But will she ever be a semi-passable writer? Will she ever publish a serious book that has serious readers thumbing thoughtfully through it in bookstores - before marching decisively up to the cashier to make a purchase they won't regret... or perhaps even to buy it as a gift for a friend?
Or will she, like others before her (think Jordan) produce something half-rate that people might buy simply for the novelty of it... or out of blind faith to their queen, who can do no wrong - even as she batters the rights handicapped and underprivileged people, and mothers with children in tow / pregnant women into the ground.
****
I didn't write this then - I didn't want to be cruel. But it all ties in here.
Writing is as much akin to blogging, as shooting a "good" short-film is to wielding a handycam and pointing it at some weird devil-teddy-bear.
In both instances, the former takes equal measures of ability, effort, and perceptiveness - you have to be able to see what you're doing right, and what you're not, and try to refine your work into something that you feel satisfied with. You have to have a certain pride in your work; you really have to "Get into it".
With the latter, you just go through the motions...
It's a little like calling a certain unnamed drummer of a certain unnamed "rock" group a Drummer... as opposed to the attitude-less drummers that have occasionally graced Harry's Jazz Bar, that just slide into their music, and "feel" it - and become it.
I'll confess that I'm not a writer. I honestly don't see myself as one - I don't proof read these posts of mine. I just let the words run off my fingers onto the screen (hence the typos). I don't take that much pride in my blog. Once in a blue moon, I do... sometimes I write something extraordinary (by my standards) and and then I wonder if perhaps I might have the talent to be a real writer, someday.
I'd like to fancy that if I collated these sparse pieces of "almost-art" I've created... perhaps I'll be really publishable in the distant future. I'd like to imagine that someday I'll be able to give up the madness of medicine, snuggle down in my hammock / deckchair on the verandah of my quiet little (and at this moment alas, still utterly imaginary) island hut, glance out at the ceaseless crests of red-hued waveheads coursing in from the distant horizon, smile at the reflection of the sun burning low in the sky... then power on my laptop and start writing, forever. Or at least until dinnertime. Preferably distracted occasionally by the (also, alas still utterly imaginary) warm, beautiful, funny, smart and intelligent woman in the deckchair next to mine...
But something like this -- it's all just coming off the top of my head. And this, ladies and gentlemen - is just blogging too.
*****
So no, Xiaxue, you are wrong.
Dawn Wossname is a blogger.
And so are you.
Just bloggers.
Mercermachine reads like a blogger - but look again. Look at his latest (well, latest, today) - "X" - and perhaps you will understand what writing really is. And perhaps you will wonder why you have never, to date, written anything quite like that.
And with luck, you will be inspired enough to want to start learning how he does it.
Write well, Wendy.
Xena as always has beaten me to the punch, kick, and throw shiny metal hoop thingummy at hapless-foes' head move, but with characteristic terseness she also killed the issue with a massive deathblow then moved on to gushing about her doggy.
Reading this bloke's take on the issue (dated Wednesday, November 16, 2005) reignited the flames, and now the words are coming off my fingers faster than I can hold them back.
Quoted from Mercermachine's blog :
"Xiaxue: ?Everyone who blogs is a blogger??
MercerMachine: Yes, dear, by definition.
Xiaxue: ??first tell me your name.?
MercerMachine: My name is MercerMachine, honey.
Xiaxue: ?Is it Lumpy??
MercerMachine: Lumpy? Wtf? No, I just told you, it?s MercerMachine. If that?s too difficult to remember, you can call me MM, okay sweetiekins?
Xiaxue: ?So, Lumpy, if you can manage to swim half a lap without dying, is it right for me to call you ?Lumpy the swimmer???"
It seems wendy is completely missing the point. I suppose it's difficult when you're under imminent threat of being dethroned by someone taller, better looking, and not merely computer photoshopped, but word has it... photoshopped in life under the surgeons blade (it wasn't me I swear. I'd have given her bigger boobies) to keep a clear mind and argue with some semblance of lucidity.
But blogging... sheesh. Blogging is just putting words to blog. Teenagers do it, complete with IrRiTaTinG SMS Spk. Lovers post each other saccharrine-sweet (pui pui) bulletins on their ickle lovely postit blogs. Computer nerds write about technowonders they saw this week, and foodies rant about seventh gastronomic heaven and orgasmic oregano oil.
And you know what, Wendy? (and Wendy Mongolian Hordes?)
It's all blogging! Blogging isn't an artform. It's not a gift, and it doesn't require talent. It's hardly plastic surgery.
It's - as you put it once, jello. For the masses.
What you're alluding to -- blogging with pinache and savoir-faire, blogging with cutting-edge style and exuding talent from every pore, and magic with every word (think Bond, James Bond) :
that's called Writing.
And it doesn't cater to the masses at all. In the same way that Arthouse caters to an audience who have chosen to develop their appreciation of film - as opposed to B grade horror flicks which give us all a good laugh (but ultimately, at the end of the day - are washed away into the seas of history) - writing is for a select audience capable of appreciating the value and beauty of written thought... and blogging is for the lay person who knows only the utility of words, as a communication tool.
It's the difference between painting a picture at home, and being called upon to paint the sistine cathedral.
Or perhaps swinging a sword around - as opposed to fencing.
****
Everytime I - and several of my friends have read her describing herself as a "writer", we've just... made little faces, then let it slide. Washed away, by the tides of time, and more important thoughts like where to get dinner...
I once thought that perhaps if she actually harboured an interest in learning in words - she might just make a passable writer.
Now I wonder if she will ever truly transcend the prison she has built around herself - and to be fair, we reinforced it too by crowning her blog-queen extraordinaire.
Wendy is queen of the bloggers by dint of popularity.
But will she ever be a semi-passable writer? Will she ever publish a serious book that has serious readers thumbing thoughtfully through it in bookstores - before marching decisively up to the cashier to make a purchase they won't regret... or perhaps even to buy it as a gift for a friend?
Or will she, like others before her (think Jordan) produce something half-rate that people might buy simply for the novelty of it... or out of blind faith to their queen, who can do no wrong - even as she batters the rights handicapped and underprivileged people, and mothers with children in tow / pregnant women into the ground.
****
I didn't write this then - I didn't want to be cruel. But it all ties in here.
Writing is as much akin to blogging, as shooting a "good" short-film is to wielding a handycam and pointing it at some weird devil-teddy-bear.
In both instances, the former takes equal measures of ability, effort, and perceptiveness - you have to be able to see what you're doing right, and what you're not, and try to refine your work into something that you feel satisfied with. You have to have a certain pride in your work; you really have to "Get into it".
With the latter, you just go through the motions...
It's a little like calling a certain unnamed drummer of a certain unnamed "rock" group a Drummer... as opposed to the attitude-less drummers that have occasionally graced Harry's Jazz Bar, that just slide into their music, and "feel" it - and become it.
I'll confess that I'm not a writer. I honestly don't see myself as one - I don't proof read these posts of mine. I just let the words run off my fingers onto the screen (hence the typos). I don't take that much pride in my blog. Once in a blue moon, I do... sometimes I write something extraordinary (by my standards) and and then I wonder if perhaps I might have the talent to be a real writer, someday.
I'd like to fancy that if I collated these sparse pieces of "almost-art" I've created... perhaps I'll be really publishable in the distant future. I'd like to imagine that someday I'll be able to give up the madness of medicine, snuggle down in my hammock / deckchair on the verandah of my quiet little (and at this moment alas, still utterly imaginary) island hut, glance out at the ceaseless crests of red-hued waveheads coursing in from the distant horizon, smile at the reflection of the sun burning low in the sky... then power on my laptop and start writing, forever. Or at least until dinnertime. Preferably distracted occasionally by the (also, alas still utterly imaginary) warm, beautiful, funny, smart and intelligent woman in the deckchair next to mine...
But something like this -- it's all just coming off the top of my head. And this, ladies and gentlemen - is just blogging too.
*****
So no, Xiaxue, you are wrong.
Dawn Wossname is a blogger.
And so are you.
Just bloggers.
Mercermachine reads like a blogger - but look again. Look at his latest (well, latest, today) - "X" - and perhaps you will understand what writing really is. And perhaps you will wonder why you have never, to date, written anything quite like that.
And with luck, you will be inspired enough to want to start learning how he does it.
Write well, Wendy.
