Extra, extra! Read aaall aboudit!

With just eight days to go to 2013, I am about to break a 2012 New Year resolution. No, there's no point in trying to talk me out of it or trying to hold me back. The deed is already done in mind and intention if not in body and practice, so I may as well get it over and done with, so I can retreat to my bed and under the duvet in shame.

Back when I resolved to start writing again in 2012, I made a pact with myself not to use the vessel for that writing as a soapbox for touting my views on religion, politics, and all the topics that are far more deserving of byte-space than a reluctant relationship with Arsenal, coffee shops, why north London is better than south, and all the other long-sentenced posts that have made it to this blog over the course of the year. And whilst the great Book Abuser vs. Book Preserver debate of February came close to bringing this dank little corner of the Web into the partisan limelight, I don't think whether you dogear your books or not probably counts as a great political debate. 

This, my dear audience, if you're still there in any shape or form (again, if you're that dog that's learnt to read and use technology, that business proposition is still open, and has evolved to include a bit of travel too, if you're that way inclined) is the resolution that I am about to break. 

I'm breaking it now because, well, it's Christmas time, and in amongst all the good cheer of elbowing and arguing with your fellow shoppers, I thought I'd bring the tone down a little.  

So, with no further ado, here's a little insight into one of the things I'm quite passionate about, and have debated/discussed at length over the course of this year. It's related to the news, to journalism, and to the way in which we as 'consumers' (for want of a better word) engage with these things.

Earlier this year, I took on a self-imposed embargo on reading the news. It was partly because I was finding it all so very depressing, and I thought I'd adopt the mantra "Ignorance is bliss". But it was mainly because I found myself "consuming" the news (there's that word again) in a non-critical way, and I was concerned of the implications of this. I figured that to not read the news at all would be better than to blindly absorb whatever The Metro was pumping out and recycling; to be an ostrich in the sand was preferable to reading articles intended to inform and influence as though they were novels to be sped-read and entertain.

The folly of this approach was highlighted to me by a friend, but I maintain that it was the right thing to do at the time. The holiday from the doom and gloom of the economy and conflicts, as well as the depressing frivolity of celebrity culture oft reported with the same energy as the economy and conflicts, was much enjoyed. The size of my world receded to my own life and that of my friends and family. It became manageable.

But soon enough I found that I was unable to take part in conversations about what was going on in the wider world. Opinions were being expressed that I was unable to judge as to whether I agreed with them or not, whether they were balanced or not. The friend that was horrified at my decision challenged me, which forced me to unpick my decision. The result was a discussion we'd had many times before - that of how the news is reported, and how that reporting is received by the public. 

The reason this is such a passionate subject for me is cobbled together from a number of influences: remnants of a History degree, where you analyse a source to death; an 'on the fence' attitude where a recognition of multiple sides of a story will often leave me paralysed with indecision despite knowing what my own views are; a fear that the viral nature of social media means that we often accept hearsay rather than challenging the truth of a story; and so on.

Let me get to the crux of this topic, otherwise I will find myself writing a terrible dissertation. And let me state that crux in clear terms. In fact, I may even use the Bold formatting option, and thus borrow one of the sensationalist design strategies often adopted by tabloids, when normal typography just doesn't say it loud enough. 

I fear that the way in which many of us read/watch/"consume" the news and journalism is very often not critical. We forget that journalists have their own biases, that they make mistakes, that publications will often have their own agendas and biases, that they're owned by someone and have to make money somehow. Even institutions such as the BBC get it wrong sometimes, despite their published Editorial Standards. The Leveson report has acted as a stark reminder that news publications are not saints that always act in the public interest.

This was a difficult area to navigate when we were simply reading newspapers or browsing news sites online. Now, with social sites such as Twitter and Facebook at our fingertips, with blogs and the rise of citizen journalism, the number of sources from which we can pull our news has not only multiplied exponentially; the number of channels through which we can now share the articles that strike a chord with us the most and through which we can share our own opinions and see those of our peers has also multiplied exponentially. The trigger-finger effect of sharing something means that opinions, wrongly-reported facts, propaganda, and so on can spread through networks in the blink of an eye. 

I'm going to remove the Bold formatting. It's having a funny effect on my writing voice, and I can feel my opinions becoming less rational as a result. But that should get the gist of my passion across... 

For an example of the speed at which misinformation can spread, we just need to take a look at the recent Facebook copyright hoax, or the ever-increasing list of celebrities that have been 'reported' as dead. Or the debate around journalists' use of Twitter, where an incorrect story can be retweeted across networks in seconds. And the more recent case of Lord McAlpine threatening to sue 10,000 Twitter users for sharing/making defamatory remarks about him. 

And so, in an attempt to kickstart my new news-reading habits I resolved to do a bit of research first; to find out what the political biases of different publications were, who owned them, which editorial standards they themselves had published and committed to adhere to. I was assuming that somewhere there would be a magnificent guide to British newspapers, a friendly, non-partisan overview for all those that wish to know from where exactly their knowledge of current affairs was being pulled.

The only thing I could find was an article on Wikipedia. 

Which begged the question: how do the younger generations learn about the biases of different publications? How do they know that they need to read the news critically? How do they know that citizen journalism and social media services, whilst important for democracy, alternative viewpoints, etc, don't necessarily need to adhere to the same standards as more 'official' news channels, and still need to be challenged for accuracy? If we as adults so easily make these mistakes and haven't sussed it for ourselves, how are we to help those that come after us to navigate the news in a world of social media and a currently unsustainable news business model? 

And just trying to follow the recent escalation in violence between Hamas and Israel took up such a considerable amount of my time, as multiple news sources filled up my day so as to not rely on a single source or a single viewpoint. That was for a single news story - how are we to do the same for every story? Mobile apps such as Google Currents help massively with this, letting you aggregate multiple news sources in a single, user-friendly design, but it's still so time-consuming.

One solution that the aforementioned friend and I came up with was the possibility of a bi-partisan news publication, where the main stories of the week would be covered by journalists and citizen-journalists (perhaps bloggers) from a spectrum of attitudes. A single factual piece accompanied by a number of opinion pieces, with clear profiles for each journalist. I was recently introduced to The Times of Israel, an online news source that almost does precisely that - draws it content from a wide spectrum of authors and journalists, and has declared itself as having no partisan affiliation. 

And so, on that note, I shall bring this piece to a close. Similar to a rambling piece I wrote back in August, the best we can ever do is to remember to read critically, to be aware of our own biases, to ask the whys, the whens, the wheres, the hows, the who's of the news pieces or opinion pieces we're reading or watching or sharing. To not limit ourselves to the echo chamber effect caused by just reading, watching and engaging with opinions that support our own, but to expose ourselves to the viewpoints of others and to be critical of those that we agree with.

And my views on the way in which we use social media to engage with the reporting of conflicts such as the Israeli/Palestinian one? Let me just leave you with this, the only intentionally public post I've ever made on Facebook:

With the ink on the ceasefire still wet, and the smoke from the last bombs probably still in the air, I've finally been prompted to speak about Gaza/Israel and share my opinion. My apologies, therefore, to those whom this is irrelevant, to those who think it's pretentious, etc. 

There will never be any prospect of peace - which is the only thing that will protect the children and civilians that ultimately suffer - unless both recognise their fundamental similarities. Arabs are not inhuman. Israelis are not inhuman. The sort of senseless, thoughtless rhetoric that inevitably erupts on both sides helps no-one. Those that think otherwise and spread racist messages about both sides need to engage with their rationality. 

It's a complex conflict, with a messy history. It's not black and white. Don't rely on a single news source, don't blindly support either side and show an unwillingness to consider the other's position. The journalists often have their own biases, they make mistakes. Be critical of what you read, compare what different news sources are saying. Don't blindly retweet/share without considering where it's come from, whether it's accurate. Doing so just serves to build misunderstanding and hate. 

However long the ceasefire lasts, it is unlikely we've seen the last of the air strikes, rockets, etc. So next time it kicks off, please be thoughtful. Yes, it's an emotional topic. Yes, we all get emotional when we read what's happening and see the images that circulate. With Israeli blood, and a lefty/pacifist disposition, I've shed tears, but for both sides. A purely emotional response doesn't help anyone. Engage with your rationality, let your emotions and rationality fight it out. 

And let's hope the ceasefire lasts. 

"Realise the universality of your fears"

Despite a fairly prolific seven months of writing earlier this year - and by prolific, I mean two-posts-a-month prolific - I appear to have well and truly hit a creative wall. A wall the likes of which would give the Great Wall of China a run for its money, if only the Creative Wall's builders would stop their existential moaning about the consistency of the cement not being a true reflection of their vision, and lay the first damn brick. 

The last two posts on this blog were rehashes of pieces I'd written in another time and another place. I'd like to pretend that the Wall doesn't really exist, because in the last few months I've written My First Short Story goddamnit, a 5,000 word article, as well as a poor attempt at making some words rhyme, and some even poorer attempts at editing and proofreading.

Alas, three months in to the careful construction of my Creative Wall, I think I need to retreat from my denial, and face this thing head-on before it becomes out of hand. Bar the short story, none of the above attempts truly count as 'writing', in my mind.

And so, first things first, for all those who want to, dabble in, or live their lives writing, painting, drawing, musicianing, crafting, and otherwise creating, I want to share a picture that one of my brothers created earlier this year as part of his 'One Picture A Day' series:

That's right. Whatever your medium, whether it be programming, playing with words, playing with paint, with buildings (but not with yourself), we all have our fears. I've discussed this with my brothers, friends, and I'm pretty sure a few strangers thrown in for good measure. And no matter the output, there is a very real fear that seems to be tagged on to anything that involves taking your mess of thoughts and ideas and turning them into something that represents those thoughts to yourself and others.

In fact, the fear seems to begin even before the point of creation. It's having the thoughts that you think are worth expressing in the first place.

At the start of this year and throughout the summer, my thoughts were sparking in all directions. I could have ten ideas to write about in the time it took for the thought to ignite.

During the last few months, my mind appears to have become somewhat of a wasteland. What's changed? Why aren't I sparking ideas left, right and centre?

I think it has something partly to do with the fact that my 'pool' of resources on which I can draw to mix 'n' match to create new thoughts and connections has not only dwindled in the last few months, but my critical engagement with those resources has become distinctly gormless. Some of you may know what I'm referring to here. It's the idea that nothing is new, but more new combinations of thoughts and creations that have come before you. We draw our influences from anywhere and everywhere. The more varied sources you have at your fingertips, the more likely it is that you're going to create new connections between them. Whilst I've been reading and trying new things (still on the graphic novels, ladies and gents, as well as a whole host of other films and shows that I would not normally have watched), I appear to have stopped thinking about what I'm reading, and making those connections that normally come quite naturally.

My attention span to finish a book has become non-existent, the happy aimless wandering that I advocate has stopped. I'd quite like to achieve the holy grail of human hibernation, and not need to have an intelligent thought until the sun deems to grace us with its presence again.

There's a fear that if and when I start writing, it will never be good enough, won't be as good as things I've managed to write in the past. Yes, I've written as part of a private work blog I keep, I've written the things mentioned at the start of this post. But I've not truly had that moment that makes me feel the need to grab my laptop or a pen and truly enjoy crafting a piece of writing.

And herein lies the golden nugget of truth behind our fears - the belief that everything we create needs to be gold, and that it will be gold without any practice or pain or hard work. But that's just not the case. As this post from one of my brothers says, we need to recognise the pencilled construction lines that sit beneath the finished piece we often see, the many false starts, the iterations that the pieces have been through. As my other brother's work ethic shows, you don't become a brilliant musician without putting in the hours. Others have said the same thing, and I keep coming back to this post I came across last year called Talker's Block, or this more recent piece from ThoughtCatalog, which act as reminders that writing isn't perfect straight away, but that this shouldn't be a reason not to write.

All of us are writers, in a way that not all of us are musicians, or artists. We all craft our little Facebook statuses, or write emails to friends and colleagues. We don't get writer's block when we write these. And yet for those of us that enjoy writing longer, or more 'creative' or 'thoughtful' pieces, or crafting a story, as soon as it comes to putting cursor to screen or pen to paper, we often freeze.

And so, at the end of this rambling piece, the best I can say to those with 'the fear' (and by "us", I mean "me". I've got my own problems to deal with without worrying about your creative block as well), is practice in private first if you're fearful of practicing in public. Do what my bothers do, which is practice their craft every day. It won't be perfect every time, but don't be afraid of failing or mistakes - it's how you improve. For writers, a private blog or handwritten diary to yourself will break down the wall. Just write. Create. Be bad.

And if this awful piece of writing can't get you going, here's some links to what other people have said and written that I've collected over the last year. And why not go ahead and share your own fears, your own antidotes at the bottom of this piece. Recognise the universality of your fears.

A 5-Step Technique for Producing Ideas

Networked Knowledge and Combinatorial Creativity

Everyone should write

Talker's block

Construction lines

On disconnecting

Right brain manifesto

21 ways to kill your creativity

Writing tips by Henry Miller, Elmore Leonard, Margret Atwood, Neil Gaiman, and George Orwell

Ray Bradbury gives 12 pieces of advice to young authors

And finally, this brilliant video from Neil Gaiman:

In defence of the lie-in

The problem with waking up is the awareness that you have indeed awoken, which creeps up inside of you whilst your eyes are still shut to the outside world. Your eyes being closed should trick the rest of you into realising it’s made a heinous mistake, and thusly cause it to recoil back into sleepdom. But there appears to be an inverse relationship between the tighter you screw your eyelids and the raising awareness of the fact that you have indeed awoken.

One eye decides to test the water, and cracks the door open just a little.

7:17?! Who wakes up at 7:17 on a Saturday!

The right eye reports back to the left the seriousness of the situation. There’s only one thing for it. The body turns over, sighs a little, and retreats further into the duvet.

The left eye winks open to see if the feint has been successful.

This just won’t do.

The mind gets bored with the whole upsetting façade, and decides to wander.

And this, my dear friends, is the beauty of the lie-in. Cast aside all notions of a day wasted, and any guilt of the productive and interesting things you could be doing. Revel in the feeling of being tucked in between your sheets, duvet folded around you, perhaps one leg out to keep from overheating, your eyelids gently closed, and your mind free to wander and wonder, without the guilt of listing all the other more important things awaiting you outside of the bed.

I could turn this into a lesson, and lecture on how boredom is supposed to be good for creativity or how night owls have been found to have higher IQs, therefore justifying the need to lie in after a week of very late nights and enforced early mornings.  Or provide insight on my own experience, which is that the long weekend mornings spent lolling around in bed are the mornings when my wandering mind starts to gain insight into areas left unsolved from during the week, or when I can spend time browsing through various Twitter feeds, or reading articles marked to read but not yet read. And how both these things are essential elements of where new ideas come from.

But those of us that either dabble or embrace this sordid past time don't lie there thinking, "Ah yes, excellent, I can already feel my creativity increasing by a rate of 0.75 per minute of boredom." Nor do we smile smugly to ourselves as we think of all those early birds rushing about with their low IQs, being all productive and cultural and what-not, whilst we lie in our musty sheets and covered in a slight sweaty sheen. Or, "Right! Time to get productive on the old idea-factory line. A few more hours in bed ought to do the trick."

No, rather we have decided to reject any feelings of guilt associated with staying in bed beyond the thirty seconds it takes to decide whether you're going to embrace the day or embrace your pillow. And we simply enjoy the feeling, and the time to ourselves (or with whoever it is that you've decided to share a bed with). We know we could be shopping, or cleaning, or exhibition-visiting. But we'd rather not. And so we don't.

And that's the crux of it. We know that we enjoy lying in until whatever time constitutes a lie-in. We know that we enjoy dozing, napping, pretending the busy outside world doesn't exist for a while. And so we embrace it. No apologies, no justification, no excuses. Just pure, unadulterated, unfettered,  laziness. And so you may judge, those of you who get up at 7:00 on a Saturday morning to make the most of the day and cram in as much as you can into the weekend, or those that force yourselves out of bed early during the week to exercise or watch the news or eat breakfast. But I think we all know who the real winners are in the scenario. Yep. The real winners. 

Revolution on hold

There's nothing like a touch of writer's block to make you realise that those dreams you harbour of retreating to a remote beach to spend your days writing great tomes that inspire people all around the world, and raking in the pounds off the back of it, are possibly a tad misjudged.

As the days and then weeks pass, you find yourself justifying the fact that you appear to be building up an impressive collection of untouched ideas and half-started stories. What's that? No, I couldn't possibly sit down to write now. I mean, Arsenal's on the television. And it's been a long day at work. And that pile of freshly-bought books that's accumulating by my bed isn't going to read itself you know. How could you even think to suggest that I take the time to write?! How irresponsible! How naive!

You begin to read back over the lucky pieces that held your attention long enough to be finished. You marvel, wondering who it was exactly that was inspired enough to pick up that pen and write, as it certainly couldn't have been you.

And so, whilst my writer's block fights the good fight, here's a little something that I wrote a few months back that I'm sharing now to try maintain the facade that I'm a budding authoress just waiting to be discovered and plucked out of obscurity. Now if you'd excuse me, I need to return to the book I'm forcing myself to finish.

****************************** 

Ah the beauty of the manifesto. Such a simple and yet powerful tool. For those that find themselves to be of a creative disposition (that’s right, I’m referring to you), there’s some particularly goosebump-inducing ones around at the moment. With many of them,you’ll surface in the real world only to realise that, in the four minutes it’s taken you to read the piece, you’ve somehow decided to become a Beat writer in the style of Jack Kerouac, or joined a community of ukulele players, or started to make jewellery out of discarded toenail clippings.

They have the ability to make you question everything you thought you believed in. You’ll find yourself nodding along emphatically in unison with the lyrical genius that assembled the words, who could only have had a root around in your subconscious whilst you were looking the other way wondering what to eat for dinner.

By way of illustration, here’s a few that I’ve come across in my travels that made me realise that I’ve clearly been living my life in entirely the wrong way; that I need to reject my current lifestyle, and take up a life of whim, spontaneity, and other related synonyms:

The Holstee Manifesto

The Incomplete Manifesto for Growth

The Right Brain Manifesto

And then, whilst on a plane hurtling towards a week of sunshine and relaxation – after writing a somewhat pretentious and ranting monologue about the absence of curiosity in some people – I found myself writing my own non-manifesto, aimed at touting the joy of being a little ‘intense’ once in a while. Oh yes. I may not have the ability to design an achingly beautiful poster, but I shall fell empires with the truth of my pen. Artists! Writers! Office workers! Milkmen! Viva la revolution!

What makes you happy?

What do you find beautiful?

What inspires you?

Who inspires you?

How do you best express yourself?

What do you enjoy creating?

What do you question?

Do you ask people what they think and feel? Do you listen to their answers?

Do you question yourself? What excites you, what scares you?

When was the last time you spoke about ideas instead of the weather or what you did over the weekend?

How do you feel when someone questions what you’ve said?

Do you ever let your mind wander and ponder?

Do you ever verbalise, picturise, musicise, or writicise your wanderings and ponderings?

What do you think about life, the universe and everything?

How do you feel about intensity of conversation, intensity of thought, intensity of connection with another person?

How do you interpret the world around you, the things you see, the things you hear?

Are you still learning? Who from, what from, how?

Does what you learn excite you, do you ever want to share it, talk about it? Does it ever make you realise how much more you have to learn?

Are you open to new ideas, to being inspired, to questioning, to expressing, creating, to making mistakes, to acknowledging what makes you happy, to not answering these questions but to using them as a way of looking beneath and beyond that which you see?

Are you human? Are you reflective? Are you unique? Are you afraid of being judged?

Are you machine?

Can you think for yourself?

Are you looking for a manifesto?

This is not a manifesto.

Write your own manifesto.

"Judge not, that ye be not judged"

I'm not one for writing book reviews; as much as I have an unhealthy obsession with reading, I'm always loathe to share the full depth of my opinion of a book with the wider world. If I haven't enjoyed a story, far be it for me to attempt to colour someone else's opinion who may well find something in it that I never could. And if I want to recommend a book, I can't assume that, just because whatever I've just read has made me giddy with excitement, that everyone else should automatically agree with me. The way we experience what we read is fluid; it's influenced by what we've read before, what's happening in our lives, what's happened in our lives, our values, our culture. My unique experience of a book is, by definition, unlikely to match your unique experience. This is why on this blog you'll be forced to read love letters to books themselves and about how reading forms an integral part of my diet, but no reviews.

I am, however, about to break my own principle. Of all the things I've read since I started this blog, the novel that's been coming to bed with me, accompanying me on the Tube, and lying in the park at my feet over the past five days is one that has caused me to finally break my silence. About half way through reading it, I knew I'd feel compelled to share my opinion once I'd read the final few words, closed the covers, and fanned through the pages before putting it down. I seek to not only make sense of my own experience of reading it, but for the first time to hopefully inspire others.

First, in the interest of full disclosure, a little background information about the writer who is now seeking to influence you. I am prone to navel gazing. I have been known to be quite intense, favouring conversations of abstract concepts, surrealism or witty banter over practical topics. I dabble in inappropriate innuendos. I enjoy unpicking underlying themes and connecting seemingly unrelated events in stories (not in a 'conspiracy nut' way, but in an English teacher 'foreshadows' way).  I wear contact lenses. I occasionally get serious bouts of acne. These two latter pieces of information mean that, if it wasn't for the wonders of optometry and skincare, I'd be a spotty four-eyed girl (sexy, I know. It's the song Van Morrison should have written). All this, as you will see, is highly relevant to my review.

The novel I've just finished could have floated the Titanic after the iceberg. Okay so perhaps I also dabble in hyperbole and inappropriate references, but you get the gist. Here's a quick checklist of some of the themes and references that had me grinning inanely to myself:

• The argument for intelligent design, also known as the Watchmaker Analogy
• Questions of free will and determinism related to our actions now and in the future (and in the past if you want to be pedantic)
• Arguments of morality and what it is that makes human 'human'
• How branding and consumerism relates to societal upheaval and customer buying habits
• The arguments for and against nuclear deterrents
• Questions of when it is appropriate to intervene in military conflicts
• The vagaries of celebrity culture
• How sentiment analysis can provide insight into public opinion and used as a decision-making tool
• The causal relationship between the media and public opinion
• The importance of adopting a wider view of the world around us, and the impact of acting without having full knowledge

In fact, here's a quote from the novel itself on the miracle of each of our's existence:

"… in each human coupling, a thousand million sperm vie for a single egg. Multiply those odds by countless generations, against the odds of your ancestors being alive, meeting, siring this precise son, that exact daughter… until your mother loves a man… and of that union, of the thousand million children competing for fertilisation, it was you, only you, that emerged…. But the world is so full of people, so crowded, with these miracles that they become commonplace and we forget… We gaze continually at the world and it grows dull in our perceptions. Yet seen from another's vantage point, as if new, it may still take the breath away."

And yet, I had to be forcibly cajoled into picking up this book. In fact, I'd go further than that. I was effectively 'double-teamed' into reading it by two people who were inappropriately passionate about it. One of them felt compelled to give me an ad hoc crash course in the history of the novel and the genre (you, yes you. I hope your punishment of being made to sit on the grass has taught its lesson). I found myself having to defend how I'd managed to read Fifty Shades of Grey before reading the novel in question (1 star on Goodreads ladies and gents, and it was only read because the Kindle edition was so cheap and I was on holiday). My response was the result of the quickest piece of thinking I think I've ever done: I'd resisted Fifty Shades on principle, only caving because I knew I'd be able to read it in 24 hours with little effort and then move on with my life. This novel, however, I was not resisting on principle but because I knew that when I finally got round to reading it I'd have to focus a considerable amount of attention to it. I'd not yet found myself in a frame of mind that would allow me to pay it the care it deserved.

You'll notice that thus far I've managed to skilfully avoid providing the name of this amazing, deep, intellectually stimulating story. This is deliberate. It's a book that I was embarrassed to bring out in public, to read on the Tube. I had to keep telling myself that I have resolved to embrace new experiences and things this year, and for god's sake, man up, it's just a book.

So now for the big reveal.

The book that I've spend this week reading was one that popped my comic book cherry.

It was Watchmen.

The two people who had been haranguing me to read it were two boys with glasses. When I discreetly pulled the book out to a colleague who works in IT, his face lit up like a child on Christmas Day (… or like a comic book reader who's just discovered the possibility that all around him women are hiding copies of Watchmen in their handbags).

Despite my quick-thinking argument about why I hadn't managed to read it yet, I'd been resisting reading Watchmen on the grounds that I was cynical, and thought it was just a book full of superheroes beating each other up and gratuitous sex. This was mainly based on my repressed memory of watching Watchmen the film, but also based on every stereotype of comic books and comic book readers you've ever heard. I had to remind myself that I like to think of myself as an open-minded individual, who doesn't have a leg to stand on when it comes to accusations of being a geek (including the spots/glasses image).

As you can probably tell by now, I genuinely enjoyed it (she says through gritted teeth). The themes and references that came out had me smiling in pleasant surprise more times than I care to remember. Those that I've picked out above are just the ones that stood out for me. I'm sure someone else reading it would take something else away. The writing was indeed beautiful on more than on occasion. In several places there are three different layers to the story positioned next to each other in a single frame, told by a narrative, dialogue and picture from three completely different parts of the story. This allows a depth of complexity of meaning that you would struggle to achieve in a normal novel, as the three different contexts play against each other. As a result, it engaged me in a way that not many other books have done. And whilst there wasn't a single frame that involved scenes of embarrassingly explicit sex, there was enough clever word play to keep me happy.

As I was enjoying the story more and more, I found myself wondering why it was that I was struggling to read it in public. What was I afraid of? Judgment from strangers that I'll never see again? A fear that people would make assumptions about me based on the connotations associated with reading a comic book? Why did I feel the need to look particularly suave and well-dressed/groomed whilst I was reading it? I came to the conclusion that it was the fact that the pages are dominated by the art of the novel, and it wasn't a style that sat easily with me. I didn't find the imagery particularly pleasing, not in content but in form. Of course, appreciation of art in any of its guises is subjective. With my head I can appreciate the skill with which the artwork of Watchmen has been executed. With my heart I feel it caused a tension in my enjoyment of the book.

I know now for a fact that this won't be my last graphic novel (a question to connoisseurs: is there a difference between a comic book and a graphic novel? I'm assuming yes but shall use them interchangeably here, protected by my naive ignorance). Particularly as an ill-advised journey to Waterstones earlier this week saw me casually glancing over the shop's selection to see what else is out there. There were some interesting-looking titles, including ones related to the conflicts we read about in the news. I also figured I'm an avid lover of Christopher Nolan's Batman trilogy, I adore the themes that come out in V for Vendetta, so why not embrace the format that these were originally written for.

And so my dear reader, I ask one favour of you, from one non-comic book reader to another. If you've never read a graphic novel but you're a lover of books, and enjoy being challenged by what you read and made to think, then put aside all your preconceived ideas, all your judgments, all you thought you knew about comic books and those that read them. Embrace the theme of this blog, which is to nurture your curiosity. Find yourself a copy of a graphic novel that you think you'll enjoy (I've been reliably informed that V for Vendetta is probably a better cherry-popper than Watchmen). Perhaps don't take it out in public if you're not yet ready, but put it by your bed and, when no-one else is looking, safely hidden under your duvet covers and with a torch, open up the pages and be prepared to dive into a world you may find it hard to turn away from.

Couldn't help but share this one

'I keep six honest serving-men...'

Another musing, this time from by the Thames whilst waiting for someone to finish work on a Friday evening a few weeks ago. Because I'm that way inclined. And apparently sitting by water does peculiar things to me when I have a notebook and pen close at hand.

It had been inspired by a phone conversation the evening before where a friend had found himself having a debate in a pub. Over the phone afterwards, we'd subsequently begun our own debate on what it is people are seeking to do when they argue. 

Many are afraid to not be seen to have an opinion, to admit ignorance on a topic. And so up and down the country, in pubs, restaurants, coffee houses, living rooms, in beds, you can hear arguments on politics, religion, the economy, distant military conflicts, the right way to brew a cup of tea.

I truly think that we defend our subjective feelings with rational arguments to justify that which we wouldn’t change when faced with contradictory evidence. We argue and defend our position, attack that of our opponent, rather than listen, question, reflect. We rarely ask ourselves, ‘Why does the person I’m talking to hold their view? How are they constructing their argument in defence of it? Is there any merit to it?’

How many of us can admit to ourselves and to each other that we sometimes use our intelligence as a weapon to clothe gut feelings in rational thought, backing it up with what we deem to be empirical evidence? Is he who shouts most eloquently always right?

And if one is right is the other consequently intrinsically wrong? Why must we divide into opposites, into black and white? We argue, defend, become offended, attack. But who knows the full picture of any situation? It feels as though there must be a supreme ignorance in assuming you know all there is to know about any given topic or situation.

We argue opinion rationally, and so ask yourself: would you change your stance if presented with a  logic that revealed flaws in that opinion? Or would you acknowledge that there’s arguments against the view you hold and continue holding it regardless? And if this is the case, why carry on arguing, attempting to persuade others that your way is the right way when it is likely that, like you, they are unlikely to change their position? Are you debating to elucidate, or are you arguing to humiliate, to convert? If the latter, pause to question yourself. Why are you seeking to convert, to humiliate? Are you so incredulous at someone else’s opinion that you feel you must enlighten them, show them the error of their ways? Or have they attacked you first, and you’re on the defensive?

And so, rather than arguing, attacking, defending, simply waiting your turn to speak, let me make a quiet suggestion: we can recognise the power and strength of questioning. Instead of blinding your opponent with facts, general knowledge, negative assumptions about their viewpoint, we can try truly listening to their position. Why do they think what they think? Are there deep-set assumptions sitting behind their argument, ideologies, are they cherry-picking their facts? Can we challenge through questioning, not through arguing? Are we able to make them think through the implications of their own argument, see the different sides? 

Listen. Question. Summarise. Find connections between seemingly disparate points, find logical flaws in their argument, take opinions to their logical conclusions. Play devil’s advocate, agree with them, test opinions you don’t believe in. All these things can be done without taking up a position in opposition to the person you’re talking to, which will at some point need to be defended. Rather than argue, you can work together to debate a point of controversy and work out why it’s a point of controversy; rather than seeking to embarrass, batter down, win, you can have an open conversation where the end isn’t a forgone conclusion.

And, if done skilfully enough, if you’re able to lead them down a path of thought with your questioning, you may just convert them to your way of thinking.

And just to sign off, here's a few lines from Rudyard Kipling and a few verses from a Tim Minchin song, on questioning and straddling:

I KEEP six honest serving-men

(They taught me all I knew);

Their names are What and Why and When

And How and Where and Who.

~ Rudyard Kipling ~

I'm taking the stand in defence of the fence

I got a little band playing tributes to ambivalence

We divide the world into liberals and gun-freaks

Into atheists and fundies

Into tee-tot'lers and junkies

Into chemical and natural

Into fictional and factual

Into science and supernatural

But it's actually naturally not that white and black

You'll be

Dividing us into terrorists and heroes

Into normal folk and weirdos

Into good people and pedos

Into things that give you cancer and the things that cure cancer

And things that don't cause cancer, but there's a chance they will cause cancer in the future

We divide the world to stop us feeling frightened

Into wrong and into right and

Into black and into white and

Into real men and fairies

Into parrots and canaries

Yeah we want the world binary, binary...

The more you know, the harder you will find it

To make up your mind, it doesn't really matter if you find

You can't see which grass is greener

Chances are it's neither, and either way it's easier

To see the difference when you're sitting on the fence

~ Tim Minchin ~

I 'heart' LDN

As a Londoner and a commuter, I appear to be heading towards the terrifyingly indelible territory of becoming one of those uncouth City-folk who is easily frustrated with tourists. More specifically, with tourists who amble along at a snail’s pace, who change their mind about which direction they're heading in last minute, that don't know Tube etiquette. It never used to bother me, but I'm increasingly finding myself angrily rolling my eyes at those who stop dead in front of me whilst I'm trying to get somewhere. (“Rolling my eyes” because I’m far too polite to take any overtly physical or verbal action that may be considered rude).

We know who we are. We manoeuvre the streets of London, or whichever city we're living in, with an aggressive grace somewhat akin to the lovechild of a gazelle and a heavyweight boxer (for the record, I’m not suggesting that all urbanites are living alternative lifestyles involving bestiality). We walk with purpose. We walk with phone in hand, talking, typing or reading. We know which platform we need, exactly how to navigate the maze of tunnels, escalators and buskers to get there, where to stand on the platform to minimise the distance to the exit at our destination. We effortlessly weave betwixt all those that stand in our path. We do not initiate conversation withother commuters. We maintain a dignified sense of personal space whilst sweatily pressed up against each other on the Tube, casually reading our books, Kindles and free newspapers as though we were in our own private studies with a glass of brandy within easy reach. We raise a wry ‘brow above narrowed eyes at tourists who comment loudly about how busy and/or hot the Tube is.

There is, however, something that feels profoundly wrong with this attitude. It’s rooted in the notion that we’re busy people, and that we need to get to where we’re going as quickly as possible. We must not waste a single precious moment. All those who ramble aimlessly are wasteful, procrastinating, lost waifs.


But as J R R Tolkien wrote in The Fellowship of the Ring, "Not all those who wander are lost". 

When I wrote my “I resolve to…” list for 2012, one of the entries was to walk more. When I started this blog, it was partly to capture the many wanderings of the City that I’d planned to do. So far, seven months in, the blog’s been light on the wanderings, and heavy on the ponderings (and notebook/book fetishes). This is partly because I am, as a colleague has aptly christened me, a “Sun Baby” who retreats to the safety of my duvet as soon as it begins raining, and conversely needs to be physically tied to my desk if you expect any work from me once the sun graces us with its presence. It’s also partly because over the last few months I’ve managed to let the mundanity of life distract me from l’art de vivre, ie from the small things that make us happy.

Thankfully, the past week has reminded me why I included ‘walk more’ on my list and I think it may have saved me from becoming a caricature of a soulless City-dweller.

Before I get to the Portobello mushroom of this post (I’m a vegetarian; “meat” is lost on me) and why I think we need to take a leaf out of the tourists’ book, let me share a few of my procrastinated meanderings from over the last seven days:

Sunday 22 July:  Headed out to The Regent’s Park (on the bus I might add, a last minute decision after realising I wasn’t in a rush and it was a beautiful day, so why get the Tube?). Read by the boating lake. Looked out aimlessly onto the boating lake. Resolved to go rowing on said boating lake before the summer ends. Walked over to Camden market the long-way round, with a stop off to look at the giraffes in London Zoo, which can be seen from the street. Arrived at Camden. Spent too much money on new piercing, second-hand books and jewellery. Curse you Camden.

Tuesday 24 July: After quick drink with a colleague after work, decided to go for a wander as it was too nice an evening to head home. So: From Minories down Canon Street, down to St Paul’s (nice little walk around St Paul’s Cathedral. Discovered London 2012 mascot Wenlock dressed as a red phone box. Also learnt that apparently couples deem the grounds of St Paul’s perfect ‘making out’ territory), down  Fleet Street, the Strand, detour into Somerset House, back onto the Strand, to Trafalgar Square, an aborted walk around The Mall before back to Trafalgar Square. Jumped on the bus back home after seeing that there’s a route that goes right outside my flat, and once again realising that I wasn’t in a rush to get to my destination.

Wednesday 25 July: A group of us from work go for a wander around Tower Hill at lunch, to see all the various London 2012 activities that are going on. Cameras come out, and we joke that we look like tourists when we actually just work five minutes away. We become increasingly excited at the sight of Olympic volunteers.

Thursday 26 July: Quick drink with another colleague after work before heading home to view a house. Tube back into town at about 8.30 in the evening. Destination? The temporary Fire Garden at the National Theatre. Absolutely breath-taking, and end up spending about an hour and half there before finally heading back home via Westminster Bridge.


Friday 27 July: Took an hour out with a colleague to watch the Olympic Flame on the Gloriana by Tower Bridge. Aside not having a clue what was going on, and both of us being too short to really see anything, was brilliant for the buzz and the barge. 

For those that are good at maths, you have hopefully worked out that:

(impatient commuter - urbanchip on shoulder)^sunshine x time to kill = urban tourist

Or something like that. Maths isn’t one of my strong points. Much like geography.

But I digress. To cut what’s becoming an ambling piece of writing short (ironic, no?), what I’m getting at is that I think we sometimes need to become tourists in our own cities, to take in the city around us with the eyes of curiosity and wonder normally reserved for the unfamiliar.  

In my previous post from by the sea, I ruminated on how we can recapture that sense of peace we often feel when we’re away from home. I didn’t have an answer. But during each of those mini stories from the past week, I found myself feeling exactly the same way I did whilst away. And this made me pause, to try and work out how it was that I’d managed to feel that freedom whilst in the middle of London, where I work, commute, go out, every day.

And I realised it was this: I’d suspended my rational Londoner for the moment, and taken on the traits of a tourist with all the time in the world to explore and all the curiosity of discovering the new. My pace had slowed down; my eyes were turned up and around me to take in the architecture and surrounding world. Walking down Canon Street and then Fleet Street I saw things I’d not seen before, like the fact that many of the buildings sat on top of the highstreet shops are all wonderfully old, each strip unlike its neighbour. At the Fire Garden I could hear fellow Londoners saying, “I don’t get it”. But there was something beautiful about the little cauldrons and plumes of flame right by the River, and the use of music to complete the experience. In the same way that looking on at water and the sky can turn us into philosophers and poets, fire has the same effect. There was nothing to get. It was there to just be enjoyed.

Wherever we live, we tend to stick to the familiar. To the same pubs, the same restaurants, the same shops. How many times have you said, “I’ve just not gotten round to seeing it yet” about an event, museum or some other ‘tourist’ activity? I’ve lived in London nearly twenty-seven years (minus a stint in Manchester for university), and I’ve only just started enjoying all it has to offer. With the sun out, and the greatest sporting event taking place on our doorstep, we have no excuse to not head out of the comfort of our homes and explore a little. Okay so “no excuse” may be a little harsh, but if we have time to kill or we’re deciding what to do in the evening or on the weekend, it’s not hard to checkout www.spoonfed.co.uk or www.londonist.com or whatever the equivalent for your city is, to see what’s going on, or just heading out to an area we don’t know that well and pretending we’re tourists in our own city. I love London, and will always be a Londoner wherever I’m living. But it’s only when I act the urban tourist that I remember why.


A few photos from the last week

Beefeater Mandeville by Tower of London

The Fire Garden at National Theatre

"His pen could lay bare the bones of a book or the soul of a statesmen in a few vivid lines" Not a bad way to be remembered for a journalist. T. P. O'Connor on Fleet Street.

An example of the architecture on Fleet Street (and around London) if you can take your eyes off the high-street chains

Another shot from Fleet Street

A couple of statues fly the flag for London 2012 on Fleet Street