Doing NaNoWriMo in the company of others has shown me something - how many annoying habits I've built up

I'm not talking about actua writing issues, I'm talking behavourial one. The one I've noticed most often has to be the tapping of keyboards. Not the keys themselves, but the frame or rest area, when I'm trying to think around a problem, or plotting my next move.

I also seem to  a very emphatic gesture when hitting the carriage return, it's like every new paragraph is a victory. Also, it seems full stops too.

The other one I've noticed, though I'm trying really hard not to do this in public, is the chewing of my tongue during tense, or really busy period.

There's a few more, but those are probably my biggest crimes against the people around me.

It has led me to wonder, what are your annoying writing habits? Answers on a post card - however since I'm not giving you my address, probably best to answer in a comment.

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The site was down for a week, this was due to a small technical issue, which my hosts have fixed, very promptly. I actually waited a week, trying a few ideas to get the site working again, I reported the issues tonight, and they fixed it just like that.

Big thanks to Bargain Host for that.

Normal service will be resumed next week, and I'll get some posts going again by mid-week. I'll get some of the missing poetry from my daily poetry posted in a single post too.

I was getting a wee bit worried I'd have to rebuild my blog. I do have database back ups though, so somehow I would have saved my content (which probably isn't great, but means a lot to me.)

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Writing is a truly amazing thing for me, it allows me to dump my big random imagination, and allows to keep it for all time. Even if I don't get far into a novel, anytime I want to relive that imagination I just read what I've got.

I'm one of those writers that are blessed with hardcore imagination. Ideas come easy to me, anything can trigger an idea. There isn't any work involved in shaping the imagination, if I let it just run wild, and I can reconjure an imaginar episode with just a few mental or physical prompts.

Of course if I want to shape this into a story I have to harness it, and that requires a great deal if force.

I imagine whole world's in my head, a litany of characters, intensive situations, there's detail o'plenty, as a character slams into a building, I'll be stood at the bus stop opposite, I'll see every half broken brick, and bits of mortar. As the protagonists of my imagination move closer for that all but inevitable kiss, I can see it happening, I can see the lines in the woman,s lips, I can see the guys forced face as he struggles not to go too fast, he wants to project a certain image with that kiss, and I see the car speeding towards them, the one who'll brake hard, and speed away, the moment spoiled. The driver by the way has brown hair, a blue denim jacket, and was smoking - he's actually fleeing the scene of a crime, which he had nothing to do with, but he's got form and doesn't want to go back to jail on a mistake.

The reason it needs to be strong armed is two-fold, firstly my imagination can run rampant at the worst time, I can easily switch between genre's, decades (even centuries), and characters, it takes practice to keep it on track. The second reason is writing for a mythical readership, I love my imagination - most of the time it's better than TV, but it's to my tastes (most of the time, there are occaisionally things I can't stand, and even offend me), however whether it's to the taste of a reading audience I'm less sure. Therefore if I want to write an imaginary scene it has to be guided, and then censored and modified further as it flows from the pen.

There is of course another downside, an overly rampant imagination can completely change tracts, starting a whole new story when your only part way through the current one. This does happen frequently, and usually coincides with me losing the will to write. You put all that effort in, and lose the zone for that story, it's a terrible thing, you're not interest in the new scene unfolding - or rather not interested in writing. I have to find a way back to the original imaginary story, if I want to continue. That's one of the things I had to learn during NaNoWriMo last year.

Most of the time, me and the left side of brain are usually on excellent terms, feeding things between us. Living the ideal life, the scary life, the exciting life, the romantic life, and the mysterious life.

The final great thing is I find it wasy to roll into an imaginary story details from research and such.I'm a sponge for information, and I can squeeze me out and spread them over my stories. So if I've read something about a theoretical form of space travel, and find myself in need of a mechanism to travel through space, (in my story, if only I could craft the real world as easily as my story ones), I draw through the details, and give my world a touch of realism that sets it shooting for wherever it needs to go.

My imagination is my most treasured asset as a writer, were I to lose that, were I to go in life without that - I honestly would rather be dead.

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An interesting question, one for which every aspiring writer, and most if not all published authors would give their leg, and any other body part, or parts, that wouldn't impede their writing, to know the answer to, "What truly is a great piece of writing?"

When I say 'great', I mean the kind of writing that is remembered as being up there, and out there, that historically will stand the test of time and will forever earn plaudits.

I'm not sure if there truly is an answer, as an aspiring writer I strive to achieve greatness, but due to a shortage of talent and attention span I don't even achieve the lowest levels of the giant step before greatness, success.

By success of course I mean any combination of: completed works, published works, recognition, money, fame, notoriety, or even just self satisfaction. I have yet to achieve these internal or external accolades really - though I am a notoriously bad dresser.

To be great, obviously you need to have some semblance of a successful piece of writing, though which measures of success, I'm not exactly sure - I truly want to believe 'greatness' is greater than simple fame and fortune - you do of course need a finished piece if work though that people can see.

I wonder on the previous note though, how many works that would actually be great, have never been shown to anyone else? Unfortunately, obvious you can't be great unless you share. I wonder how many people have a piece that is potentially 'great', but they give up, and never finish it?

Greatness though, is clearly beyond from success, there are millions of books published 206,000 in the UK in 2005 alone, (for an unpublished writer being published is a pretty common), measure of success, yet only a fraction of a percent can truly be considered great, beyond the moment the world first sees it.

Even then, we could debate endlessly what actually falls into the list if greats. This tells me this 'greatness' we aspire to, is subjective - in the case of literature, poetry, art, television, etc..., beauty is truly in the eye of the beholder.

But wait, hang on a second that is truly unfair! I want to aspire to this, I want to believe that someday I can overcome my short comings and produce something great, therefore there must be some kind of arbitrary measure to set as a goal, some rule to follow to guide my path. How can I do that if greatness is simply a one on one relationship (one person thinks it's great, therefore you can class it as great - because it's great in a very specific category)? Sure if just one person out of a billion thinks it's great, that is an achievement - but that isn't satisfactory. I need more.

So, a bazillion people bought it, its right there number one for every general, and every relevant category specific best seller list non-stop for two years. Is that enough to call it a great? Nope, there could be a thirty pound voucher with each book, or a million pound prize give away that only book owners could enter for. PR, and controversy could make it sell, but doesn't make it a great.

So what do I class as great? For me it would be when majority calls of greatness are achieved from, three distinct groups of people: Joe Public, Mr Snide Critic, and Professor Ivory of Tower. When there's some sort of balance of uplifting feedback from these three (i.e. categorically more positive than negative), you've probably achieved some level of 'greatness'. I would however advise it should probably take years to achieve this; your creative output should stand the test of time.

• If Joe Public is bored and forgets book easily you're not there yet.
• Critics views, and indeed critics themselves change, Mr Snide Critic rarely lasts long. So a prospective 'great' must buck trends and be steadfast in the eyes of ever changing critics.
• As to the Ivory Towers, it is hard enough to get them to take notice, and it will probably rely on positive feedbacks from Joe Public and the Mr Snide Critic.

If after several years your book still sells (Joe Public usually votes with his feet, though these days, he also votes online - which is a measure to watch), critics don't reverse a positive review (and the sum total of reviews is overwhelmingly positive - don't just be measuring on a small handful of a favourable reviews),  and it gets attention from academics (ideally you want it to be required reading, or mentioned in some kind of syllabus (which isn't about worst, or most mediocre books ever)), then I think, fairly you can class your own work as 'great', because likely, in the eyes of the world that's where it stands.

This is how I would measure 'greatness', but the measure of greatness is subjective so many would consider me wrong, and have their own measures. Measures that are more favourable to some, and less favourable to others - likely as not, if I ever do achieve success, I might be more specific about what I call 'great', and how I judge my own writing. It is in human nature to revaluate our senses of achievement, because sometimes the goals we initially set, aren't actually the places we are happy, (that and we're selfish).

I think, having put these thoughts down, that general greatness is probably not quite achievable. Maybe it has been achieved by a select few writers, but I do wonder about the fairness of my views: can the likes of Henry Gray's Anatomy of the Human Body, and Darwin's On the Origin of Species be safely measured against A.A. Milne's Winnie the Pooh, or J. K. Rowlings Harry Potter? Can an airport novel reasonably be considered against an historical biography?

My answer is no - blowing all my thoughts out of the water, the measure of 'greatness', even certain measures of success simply have to be subjective. Can you imagine how much work it would involve to compile a list of the greatest ever, if the category was "anything"? Even if you specify it to books, or poetry, or pieces of music - it would take a monumental effort to classify what is greater.

So my conclusion would be that 'greatness' is subjective, that hard and fast rules are hard to apply (though my impressing of three distinct groups could work, if each measured group is filtered to category specific sub-groups).

What does this mean for me? Well if I were to ever write anything good enough to be published - my aim would be for it to be the one of the 'greatest' in as many of the genre's or categories it applies to. So if I write a romantic comedy, set in Berlin, during the year 2080, based on the dating life of an albino alligator, it would be one of the greatest romantic comedies, one of the greatest novels set in Berlin, one of the greatest future based novels, one of the greatest novels based on the dating life an alligator (and albino alligators). Of course you would have to practice some common sense, there probably aren't that many books based on the dating life of an albino alligator after all, so unless you were really desperately to put "greatest" next to the blurb of your book, or your writing CV, you would probably not be quite that specific.

Of course, 'greatness' may not be something I'll ever achieve - which is why my happiness at being a writer is not dependant on this measure. That isn't the point of the story - that point is, I'm at my happiest if I'm trying to achieve 'greatness'.

In Barrington Moore's Reflections on the Causes of Human Misery and upon Certain Proposals to Eliminate Them, he says this of revolutionaries: "[...] He is corrupted by the very process of achieving power", which I, being the romantic that I am, believe it for it to apply, it must apply in both positive and negative senses, therefore striving to achieve 'greatness' through scrupulous means leads me to happiness and satisfaction, before I even get there.¹

¹ Of course what Barrington Moore probably meant was you have to use unscrupulous means to achieve power, and therefore you are corrupted before you get there - I'm just a silver lining kind of guy, and wanted to finish on a positive, after setting the self destruct on my cosy little idea of 'greatness'

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You can feel free to ignore this post, it's more for me than anyone else.

I am definately feeling more committed to this blog than any other. That said, I have done a lot of little bits and bobs technically to get the site where I want it, which has distracted from actual writing things to go in said blog.

Well that changes now, I'm reasonably confident technically I won't be making anymore changes.

I've now set the theme, and it won't be changing for a while (well a few months, I'd like to have some kind of rotation system through the seasons - however with the intent of getting some content bedded in, this won't start until Autumn).

I've also added an image gallery system, the native images system just had one folder - galleries let me break things down. When more photos are uploaded, I'll add albums - so "Days out", "Holidays", "Admin", "Friends", that kind of thing. I think I also need to set myself a three month rotation of clearing up images, making sure they're tagged, commented, and that sort of thing. I am however using the galleries here to replace my LiveJournal Scrapbook, just because I have more control here, and unlike Facebook, no one can remove the rights to my own photo's from here.

My posts now automatically get ported over to my LiveJournal (unless I don't want them to), this will hopefully keep it in my friends mind, and if they know people that would be interested in this blog, they can point them at it. Plus, what I post here was what I aimed to post there anyway - so it all works out.

I've added a Twitter sidebar widget - this hopefully keeps things a bit personal, because I don't want to come across as just a blogger, this also doubles as my personal site in relation to the subject of creativity. Balancing the two is what's important really.

Added a few links, but I really want to go through my vast bookmarks and pull all the relevant ones into a page on here, to share.

Added my Social Networking sites to the list - most of which I'm happy to add visitors to my blog to.

Added a plug-in that allows my site to have a different theme, and set of functions on a mobile phone. Makes for smaller, quicker (and therefore cheaper) page loads. I doubt there will be many people logging on to the site from their mobiles, however I do, I can write draft of posts using my phone, which is great for mobile blogging. This means I can use some of the time I spend travelling by bus each day to get some content written. It would only ever be draft, but they are things to build on. I've already started doing this, and it works.

There are more things I'd like to develop, but content is top priority, then acquiring regular readers (I can dream), and at some point in the future I'd like to do more work to encourage people to write (which was always aim of the now sadly retired aspiring.org (and writers-ramblings.com before that) forums. Maybe do a competition every now and again.

Anyway, that's enough about what I've done, and what I'd like to do with the blog.

I'll say this though, I'm very much impressed with WordPress, it's a dream to write in, a dream to set up, and a dream to add extra functionality and design to. I think I'll be using this for the other blog I'm intending.

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I've just been on a glorious walk, went on to Primrose Valley in Leeds. Ever since I was a child, it's been a magical place. Even now, despite the efforts of the council to tame it - it's still magical.

That said, I was puzzled to find: 

Now, I've lived in this area (on one side of Primrose Valley or t'other), for about twenty years. In all that time there were rumours about the council wanting to build houses on there, however there has always been strong local opposition to this.

The council went as far as to stop maintaining it (or so it seemed, I'm sure they would say otherwise).

So when I saw that sign, what first came to mind was bulldozers raking over my childhood memories, memories of football, rugby, laser tag, even school (I went to Crossgates Primary School - for my sins), and other childhood hi jinx. It's a terrifying thought.

You may be asking what's this got to do with poetry, or literature, technically it doesn't much. It's one of the places I used to write though,  and a place I've written about plenty of times. It's somewhere special to me. I'm going to re-post one of those special stories at the end of this post.

Anyway, back to the point (yes I digressed, and that's the subject of my latest poem), it turns out, I don't need to be worried.  I put on my detective's hat, and tracked down what was going on - despite English Partnerships being co-opted by Homes & Communities Agency, they appear to planning some kind of restoration and care work on the fields. Okay, yes I spent about three hours working all this out, but most of the documentation is from 2006, it's just taken that long for bureaucracy to kick in and do something.

There's very little on the Leeds City Council website about it - but I guess it's been so long since it was announced it's just slipped well down the relevant  results.

It makes me happy that it's safe, makes me happy that one of my childhood memories remains intact, even as others vanish and warp out of recognition.

I mentioned before that I have an idea for a new poem - I'm going to be writing it there, in good old fashioned ink and paper. Though, as a matter of respect  for the maintenance and improvement of my beloved valley, I'm going to obey that sign (if I'd found out  that they building on there, I would have happily risked being arrested in protest).

If you'd like to see some more photo's of my walk out across Primrose Valley, follow this link to more, including Bailey, our three year Yorkshire Terrier, oh and me (I'm the one with the ginger goatee, and bandana on - he's the silver haired little dog, trust me)  - Primrose valley with Bailey - May 09

Anyway, as promised here's one of my old stories, written back in December 2003 (I'd like to think I've improved as a writer since then - however it's a story that means something, so I don't mind exposing it):

Oh and I won't bore you with the real history of Primrose Valley just yet - I'll save that for another time.

A Journey into an Old Land

The man arrived at the land of his pilgrimage, a somewhat special pilgrimage. For too long he had been away, but now it felt as though he was returning home as passed the first gate into another world. As he followed the winding path, what fell before his eyes was not the greenery he had remembered, not even the calming natural browns of the falling autumn. There was rubbish, probably the waste from the border houses, it saddened him to see in such a few short years how people had neglected this place of magic.

He pushed forwards past the border paths, he came to the avenue, drop off to the left, a near solid wall of trees to his right. Now the beauty of the land showed, from the drop off he could see out over the mundane world, the world he belonged to, yet didn't. The trees marked his land of magic, his journey into a land of his gods. There were three passages through the trees, the one closest was a hard track through the trees, there was a game path, but his was not an arduous trek, so he looked up to the path that was a few minutes’ walk away.

Stood by the entrance was a dog, a large dog, it hadn't seen him, it was sat there as if guarding the way. The traveller thought he heard someone calling, must be the dog's owner, but in a land of wild magic, stray animals were always a possibility. He turned and took the closer path, half way up the path he heard something behind, him then a bark. He turned slowly, aware that sudden movements could be the end of him.

In front of him there were two dogs, the large dog from before, and a little one. The big one looked scruffy and dirty, as if it had not been groomed for a long time, though it wore a collar, which told him once it had been a domesticated pet. That didn't help him no, the big one was growling, breaking every so often to bark, the little one was just barking. Both seemed menacing. The man held his bag out in front of him, aware of the only weapon he had being a small knife in the bag, which he couldn't use to harm these animals because of his own beliefs, and it being no good anyway. He hoped if the animals attacked he could maybe buy him some time, to do what he didn't know.

He stood there facing the animals, he slowly started stepping backwards, he stood on a stick, fortunately it appeared the animals were more wary of him, and stepped back at the noise. They held their ground again, edging forward. Fear permeated every part of the man's being, but he knew that he should remain calm.

For whatever reason the animals went through the tall grass and circled round, calmly, but quickly the man went back the way he had come, keep a wary eye behind him in case they came down the path behind him. He went back to the green avenue, he walked it up to the second furthest entrance, always wary of the dogs. He went through the passage way of trees on both sides to the open land beyond. As he stepped out into the open land. It was glorious rolling hills, banks of the valley, flat plains trees, oh so many old and glorious trees. The signs of autumn were there, the yellow and brown patches to the mostly green trees.

As he looked over to a hill, just further past he could see the two dogs running round. Were they guardians of this land, was he not meant to be here? He could see no one else around, had this place changed so much that his Gods no longer welcomed people to this holy place. He decided to wait the guardians out. They ran round for a bit, then went over the hill, ahead of him and over into the trees to his left. He turned right and headed for the hill, it would be a good vantage point to eye the land, and keep his eyes out for the dogs.

Strangely the idea of being hunted, the idea that the longer he spent in this world, the more danger he was in, it reached to him, he was now part of the land. He was hunter of his own spirit, but while he was here he was also the hunted. Should the way he treated this land, his respect for it falter then he would find himself no part of this world, or the mundane world.

From the hill he could see all around, most of this area of the valley was his to see, he couldn't see where he wanted to go, the land concealed it, held it protected against its bosom. He looked for the two dogs but could not see them, somewhere distant he heard a bark, so he took it as a good sign and headed further into the valley. He came to another passage of trees, this one lead down to the pond, an old area where water come up from the ground, ran for a bit then went back into the land. It was a beautiful place, a place of power, yet tranquil. Passing the tree's he could hear the birds moving, every so often he thought he heard breathing, more than birds something larger. He hoped it wasn't the dogs, but just in case he was extra vigilant. He pushed the fear aside, he wasn't willing to enter a place of the Gods with fear in his heart or in his mind.

As he walked down the passage way, the water before him seemed to speak invitingly. He recognised the siren's call of water nature, but he knew beneath the calm surface was a danger unseen, the depths, though not deep would trap a man still, then pull him under. He had heard the stories when he had been a child. He walked down by the water, he walked past the island, the stones that led to it were no longer there, and round it was over grown with reeds. He sighed, once it had not been like this, but he took solace in some things didn't change. The feeling of the area was still the same, and it felt good. He spent a few minutes there, before heading back part of the way he had come. He took a right and head over some scrub land. He went to the end of the pond, a place unseen by most. It was a small pool, set a foot or so below the ground level, with rocks. Trees crowded round to one side, he sat down, and meditated. This was where the Gods spoke to him when he was a child. This was where the fairies came to play.

His visions came and went, he saw the past, and he saw the bits of the future he was allowed to see. When all was done, his sense of peace returned, he got up, leaving a small gift to the land. A piece of bread and a piece of topaz. He head off back to the plains, taking the long way enjoying the land around him.

He heard a bark in the distance as he got to the plains, he looked round, and following the line of the hill he could see the two dogs in the distance. He was very aware they could come down a straight route from where they were to the passageway to the green avenue. He decided that he'd risk it, be it the gods will, that their two guardians stop him. He got near the passageway, and looked round, he could the see the dogs coming towards where he was, they weren't running, they were ambling down. He quickened his pace, but remaining casual, he got through the passageway, constantly looking back to know if he had to run or not. The dogs stopped at the end of the passageway, not following him. They loitered in the area sniffing round, and watching him. The guardians were allowing him to leave, they had allowed him to enter, but had given him a warning, though he was in a land of immortals, he was still mortal, and his will did not countermand the lands. If only the rest of the world understood that.

He left the way he had come, saying thank you to the lands, leaving just a common stone he had found on his travels through, he left it by the entrance, significantly telling the land he that he returned what he took. His final mark of respect before stepping back into his world.

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