loading-indicator

LOADING

loading-indicator

LOADING

loading-indicator

LOADING

loading-indicator

LOADING

loading-indicator

LOADING

loading-indicator

LOADING

loading-indicator

LOADING

loading-indicator

LOADING

loading-indicator

LOADING

loading-indicator

LOADING

loading-indicator

LOADING

loading-indicator

LOADING

loading-indicator

LOADING

loading-indicator

LOADING

loading-indicator

LOADING

loading-indicator

LOADING

loading-indicator

LOADING

loading-indicator

LOADING

loading-indicator

LOADING

loading-indicator

LOADING

loading-indicator

LOADING

loading-indicator

LOADING

Writing…

I’m a writer. I like to write, but that doesn’t necessarily mean I’m that good at it. I’ve never, for example, published any fiction although I would like to – I’m not so sure that I have as much of the fabled novel in me, but I may have an essay or two which, as Ursula K. Le Guin noted, are really just trials of stuff. Only recently have I given myself permission to call myself a writer. I have published scientific papers and, if you’ve been paying attention, I am finishing off a book which has scientific pretentions but is written in a somewhat idiosyncratic style that will, no doubt, raise the hackles of some. But writing is writing: a moderately lonely passion for putting ideas out into the world in the hope that they will snag in someone else’s head just long enough to make a difference. That’s why I write. Oh sure, I am an academic and these days that means “Publish or Perish” but I have got along quite nicely just writing when I have something to say. This usually means “not often” but that’s a price I’m willing to pay for not writing the same paper nine or ten times. Famous? Not really! This past year I have had the chance to reflect on the practice of writing as I do it, which is sporadically and interspersed with interruptions from children and animals – as I write this I am distracted by two of our horses grooming each other which, if you have never seen it, is remarkable tender for such large animals. But then, horses are the epitome of grace. I find I write the way I talk, mostly as a stream of consciousness influenced by whatever is happening in my mind at the time, but with direction, like a sailing ship on a vast ocean – it’s going somewhere but it may get a little off course in windy weather. This can be quite off-putting, I am sure, for the people who read what I write or listen to what I say, because whilst I might get to the end sometime, I’ll often ‘tangentalize,’ giving in to new thoughts that just happen by as I express myself. This particular post says pretty much nothing, for instance, so I had better make a point for it. What tools do I use in my writing? A moleskine, Ulysses, an iPad (and trusty pencil), a Kobo Sage (and trusty stylus!), a Mac, but mostly the things around me that inspire thought because unless you have that you can’t say anything. So what happened today? I sat down to do a bunch of marking in the morning and ended up in the afternoon having done none but having had meetings and answered emails. Better luck tomorrow… But at least I got this post done. I could write more, for instance about today’s news (not amazing) or what marking I have done (not much) but this’ll do.

Dalkeith, Ontario October 12th, 2021 (Revised with layout October 22nd, 2021)

loading-indicator

LOADING

loading-indicator

LOADING

loading-indicator

LOADING

loading-indicator

LOADING

loading-indicator

LOADING

loading-indicator

LOADING