Category: Just Shelley

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Just Shelley

New Year: Universal Do Over

Recovered from the Wayback Machine.

Jeneane Sessum isn’t particularly fond of New Year’s Eve, but she still looks for the positive within this year’s end:

 

Beyond the obvious, I think about this place we’re building online. And I think 2002 was a year of a different kind of love. A different kind of family. A kind of rebuilding, re-creation. Somewhere I said that blogging is a do-over of our childhoods. Getting the family thing right. Getting love right. Even getting anger and arguments and resolution right. I think this past year has proven those words true for me. Something is healthier in here.

I, on the other hand, love New Year’s Eve. It’s one of my favorite times of the year. It’s on this day that I realize that it’s too late to try and fulfill all those foolish resolutions I made last year, so I might as well give them up as a lost cause and come up with a fresh batch for next year.

New Year’s Eve is also the day to remember that whatever happened last year — the hurts, the pain and sadness, the political battles lost, the friends who drift away — happened last year. This isn’t forcing events into forgetfulness as much as it is softening them with perspective. Maybe even a little hope.

New Year’s Eve is the period being put to the sentence that is 2002. It is the Universe’s gift to us — our own personal do-over. Whatever mistakes we made in 2002 belong in 2002, and we will not carry them with us into 2003.

In 2002 we came closer to war with Iraq and now North Korea. Okay, then 2003 is the year that we don’t go to war with Iraq, or with North Korea. In 2002 we watched the world shudder from financial breakdown, an event that was not confined to any one border. Okay then, 2003 is the year that we start, gradually, carefully, hopefully making our way out of the financial bottom.

In 2003 we have a chance to help the environment, to make our neighborhoods better places to live, to read good books, to make new friends, to discover great opportunities, to uncover stories that need to be told, to see new cures for disease, to listen to wondrous new music, to share new words with each other, to fall in love all over again. Next year we’ll touch hands for the first time, and watch a baby’s first steps.

Next year is a another year to once again try to make peace, stop famine, provide hope. Maybe even, as a people, grow up a little. All that anticipation — how can one not like New Year’s eve?

In 2002, I read the words of my friend Chris, as he wrote about his close friend’s death from terrorism. In 2002, Rick died for the worst of reasons, a blend of politics and religion that makes no sense regardless of whose side one is on. Yet into 2003, I hope what Chris brings with him is the memory of the years that he shared with his friend; that he brings with him the bright and unstoppable spirit that is Rick. And thanks to Chris’ sharing of what was probably one of the most difficult times of his life, we all take into the new year an even stronger will to end these tragedies.

leavessm.jpgIf we don’t go into the new year with hope, and determination based on this hope, how then can we possibly build future New Year’s eve’s that don’t close on similar tragedy?

So I sit in my chair, filled with the sense of anticipation that has nothing to do with clocks and countdowns, confetti and fireworks. And I ask you to check your worldly cynicism at the door, face forward not back, and join me in cherishing that which was, but dreaming of that which will be. For you see, next year is going to be a good year. No, next year is going to be a great year.

Happy New Year to all my friends!

 

With arms wide open
Under the sunlight
Welcome to this place
I’ll show you everything.

Creed, With Arms Wide Open

 

 

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Just Shelley

Snowfall

Recovered from the Wayback Machine.

There’s something magical about seeing the first snow flake falling. At that moment, you and nature are joined in a special secret only shared by those who look out their windows at just the right moment. The first flakes are few, and dance lightly about in the breeze, like the tip of a tongue during foreplay. Moving here, no there, no here.

During the snowfall I watch the pattern of the wind, no longer limited by my crude perceptions that tells me the wind is blowing in a straight line from here to there. The snow traces the individual movements of the wind, a waltz of breezes.

During the day, through my window I watch a father take his child for her first walk in the snow. Hesitant footsteps made a little more unsure by suddently uneven footing that shifts about and causes her to fall. Cruel! But then there’s that moment when tiny face is turned up into the snowfall for the first time; gently, cold touches sweep across cheeks and wisps of cotton at lashes and falls and melts in mouth opened to cry out in pure discovery. All is forgiven, and another child is found winter.

Better than watching the first flake, I love to go to bed with bare streets and wake up in the mornings knowing that snow has started falling. You can hear it by the absence of sound, and you can see it through your window as streetlight reflected. Pulling back the curtain, you look out on a world of white, lines softened between objects until the differences are erased. All you see is soft, crystalline mounds, sparkling in the light.

Snow brings with it a hint of Mother tucking us in against the cold, and a promise of waking.

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Weblogging Writing

And they lived happily ever after

Recovered from the Wayback Machine.

A joke for you:

 

A woman approaches the counter at a bookstore. The guy behind the counter smiles and says, “May I help you?”

“Yes. I bought this book last week,” she said. “And I wasn’t able to put it down for a moment”.

The clerk replied, “It was that good?”

“It had everything”, the woman exclaimed. “It had laughter. It had tears. It had drama, and comedy, and angst. This book explored every aspect of the human condition.”

The clerk smiled. “Great! We like to hear from happy customers. Thanks for coming by and telling us you were pleased with the book.”

“Oh. That’s not why I came by. I want to return the book and get my money back.”

The clerk was puzzled. “But you said this book had everything. It had comedy and drama, and tears and smiles, and even angst. Why would you return the book?”

“Because,” the woman explained. “The book is supposed to be about programming Python.”

 

My favorite new papa, Gary Turner, is talking about weblog writing at his weblog. Specifically he wonders if there’s anything about good writing in the Essential Blogging book, which I co-authored:

 

Shelley had a hand in Essential Blogging, which I haven’t read, but does anyone know if there’s any focus at all given to writing in Essential Blogging? Knowing Shelley and how she highly she values good writing it would seem a little ironical if there’s no coverage on writing in EB. Presuming, of course, that good writing is an essential part of good blogging.

 

Must be something in the air because a few other people are talking about weblog writing. Maybe it’s that end of the year reflectivity that strikes us all, that desire to look back at where we were and figure out where we’re going. Auld Lang Syne.

Steve Himmer the question:

 

What are we we writing, and how are we writing it? What constitutes good writing on the web, and is it determined by the same criteria that determine good writing elsewhere?

 

As you can see from the joke that started this post, good writing is relative. With computer books ‘good writing’ is measured by how little you really notice the writing. Why do you want the book? To learn about Python, you say? Well, did you learn about Python? And did the book help? Then that’s good writing.

“Jeff Ward answers Steve by comparing forms of writing. He writes of what I call the LinkerLoggers (Blinkers?):

 

Link heavy blogs create persona through a process of selection, of valuation. It’s interesting that this is perhaps the longest surviving mode of blogging, which does not show much sign of fading— I remember when I started that this seemed mostly bush-league. It takes guts to put yourself out on the commons without any trinkets to sell.

 

After first counting the number of links in this posting (four), I thought long and hard about what Jeff is saying. He has a point — why weblog if you don’t write? Still, there’s that relative thing again. Isaac Asimov once wrote that short stories were the truest challenge to the writer. Anyone can write a story in 400 pages, but only a great writer can write a story in 400 words.

There is skill involved in linking to a story and providing just enough information about it that people want to follow the link, to see how the story ends. Just because the diamonds are tiny doesn’t mean they don’t still sparkle.

What do I think is good weblog writing? I think weblogging is weird. If there’s a crack between all the traditional writing forms — the books, the articles, plays, and poems — weblogging fills that crack. We’re not bricks, we’re cement and we’re oozing all over the world. We’ll never know what is or is not good weblog writing, because the writing is as unique as the number of writers, as good as the worst of us and as poor as the best. We define the rules and we can break the rules, and the first rule we break is to throw out all our assumptions about ‘what is good writing’.

I once said in a post that weblogging is writing the world’s greatest novel with 10,000 of your best friends. Hell on royalities.

Jonathon Delacour joined the writing discussion with the following:

 

Comparing the link+quote+comment weblog to show-and-tell made me laugh, even though I started out that way myself. I didn’t stay there for long—within my first week of blogging I’d written my first long form post. Thinking back to how I approached blogging in those early days, there was an element of wanting to please that’s less evident now (to me anyway).

 

…there was an element of wanting to please that’s less evident now… I watched Jonathon emerge, from dark background to light; from frequent small posts heavy with links, to creating lovely melodies in virtual ink. Doing a Dave. The less he cared about wanting to please, the more pleasing the work. Odd that.

Jonathon discovered the real essence of ‘good’ weblog writing — not really caring if others think your writing is good, or not. Try putting that on your scale and see if you don’t get jello.

I haven’t said Happy Holidays, have I? Happy Holidays, fellow authors. I wish you joy in your words.

Categories
Writing

Practical RDF Weblog—Back in Action

Recovered from the Wayback Machine.

The Practical RDF book weblog is back in action. I’ll be posting chapters, slowly, starting in the next couple of days. We’re trying to get the book into the publication process by end of the year, which means less weblogging, more book writing, and more coding.

Discipline. Aren’t INTJ’s supposed to be disciplined?

The material has been altered, considerably, from the first draft. I’ve added coverage of additional technologies, refocused the audience a bit, and updated the material to reflect the newest edition of the RDF specification documents. Still, the material is in draft form, which means no editorial polish and the usual Burningbirdisms. In between releases of chapters, I’ll also be covering other RDF-related topics, to add a bit of variety. Keep you all hungry for more.

The release of the chapters will also signify the release of some new goodies I’ve been playing around with for a time. All open source, of course. Many are weblog or web site-related so I hope that they might be of interest.

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Just Shelley

The Letter

Recovered from the Wayback Machine.

I received a rare letter from my Father today. He doesn’t write too many letters now because his hand writing has become increasingly bad over the years. What with the stroke and all the cancers and the radiation overdose I’m glad just to be getting a letter, much less one that’s legible.

Of course, my father’s hand writing never was good. It’s a version of printing I call the Powers Print — a combination of upper and lower case block-like print letters, lightly scrawled as if the writer is too impatient with the slowness of the ink and the inefficiency of the pen and paper. Hasty marks barely touching the page.

Reading my Dad’s letters requires intuition, imagination, and no little detective skill. I usually only attempt the process when I can get my roommate to help me with the deciphering.

“‘I went to the doctor ______.’ Does that look like a Tuesday or Thursday to you?”

“Looks like a Sunday.”

“Can’t be. You don’t go to the doctor on Sunday.”

“You’re right. It’s probably Thursday. I think that’s a ‘ur’ not a ‘ue’.”

“I think you’re right. ‘I went to the doctor Thursday. He said that I need to consider getting a _____’. I have no idea what this word is. Can you recognize it?”

“Hmmm. Rocker? Do you think it says ‘rocker’?”

“Why would a doctor recommend a rocker? Must be something else. ‘I went to the doctor Tuesday. He said I need to consider getting a ‘blank’. He’s concerned I’m going to’, does this look like ‘fall’ to you?”

“I’d say it was fall. If that’s fall, then the previous word could be ‘walker’. That would make sense.”

And on it goes, in an exercise that provides both news and entertainment until just before his usual signoff of ‘Love, Dad’, when he writes with unusual clarity:

“I bet you can’t read half this letter.”