Past the Powerpoint of no return...
Working on a set of Chemistry questions. Writing an English essay on whether or not Iago, villain of Othello, is a “motiveless malignity”. Creating a, still uncompleted, Computing presentation on the many uses of processors. Avoiding studying for a Maths test. Playing Sonic Adventure 2 Battle when I really should have been doing all of the above.
Well, that's how my evening went. Curiously, on one of the few times that I start writing one of these things before about 25 to midnight, I'm pretty much out of ideas and energy. Still, that's never stopped any blogger before now, so why should it stop me?
That English essay has actually got me thinking. Not about Shakespeare really, but about writing. I've decided that I do not, in general, like writing. I do not enjoy it, as a task. Which begs the question (not in the original sense of “begs the question”, which had more to do with circular logic, but I claim the rights of common usage), why do I do it? Why, when I'm sitting here with my left arm aching, am I still sitting here, writing this blog?
There are two possibilities. The first is that, while writing itself is not a task I enjoy, writing down my thoughts and ideas is. To illustrate that point, think of all the things you've ever had to write down. Essays, character studies, test answers, memos, critical evaluations of mid-to-late 19th century literature. I'm willing to say with confidence that you didn't enjoy writing down any of those things. It may not have been a horrible torture (excluding the 19th century literature) but nor was it what you would call enjoyable.
(The second reason is that I'm mad, but I don't like the implications of that so I'm going to stick with my first train of thought.)
I've often thought that, throughout the years I've been doing English as a school subject, one which consists mainly of pretending everything is as brilliant as Shakespeare and trying to get 20 marks worth of answers out of 10 line poems, I've been assigned to do many things. I've often thought that my best writing, my personal favourites, be they fiction or factual, are on topics that I like or get to choose. I hate having to force myself to write about one particular thing and I'll never be happy with the final result, except for the big grin that comes over my face when the final page prints and I can stick it in my doodle-covered folder.
I'm not saying I'm a great writer, but I can enjoy it when I get to choose what to write down. Most people are like that, in one way or another. Force them into doing something and they'll usually be against it. Ask them to do the exact same thing and they're far more likely to comply and enjoy whatever there is to enjoy. Or maybe it's just me.
Anyway, I've now completely overspent my daily allowance of competence, creativity and cognitive functioning so I'm gonna go make a Powerpoint presentation.
Well, that's how my evening went. Curiously, on one of the few times that I start writing one of these things before about 25 to midnight, I'm pretty much out of ideas and energy. Still, that's never stopped any blogger before now, so why should it stop me?
That English essay has actually got me thinking. Not about Shakespeare really, but about writing. I've decided that I do not, in general, like writing. I do not enjoy it, as a task. Which begs the question (not in the original sense of “begs the question”, which had more to do with circular logic, but I claim the rights of common usage), why do I do it? Why, when I'm sitting here with my left arm aching, am I still sitting here, writing this blog?
There are two possibilities. The first is that, while writing itself is not a task I enjoy, writing down my thoughts and ideas is. To illustrate that point, think of all the things you've ever had to write down. Essays, character studies, test answers, memos, critical evaluations of mid-to-late 19th century literature. I'm willing to say with confidence that you didn't enjoy writing down any of those things. It may not have been a horrible torture (excluding the 19th century literature) but nor was it what you would call enjoyable.
(The second reason is that I'm mad, but I don't like the implications of that so I'm going to stick with my first train of thought.)
I've often thought that, throughout the years I've been doing English as a school subject, one which consists mainly of pretending everything is as brilliant as Shakespeare and trying to get 20 marks worth of answers out of 10 line poems, I've been assigned to do many things. I've often thought that my best writing, my personal favourites, be they fiction or factual, are on topics that I like or get to choose. I hate having to force myself to write about one particular thing and I'll never be happy with the final result, except for the big grin that comes over my face when the final page prints and I can stick it in my doodle-covered folder.
I'm not saying I'm a great writer, but I can enjoy it when I get to choose what to write down. Most people are like that, in one way or another. Force them into doing something and they'll usually be against it. Ask them to do the exact same thing and they're far more likely to comply and enjoy whatever there is to enjoy. Or maybe it's just me.
Anyway, I've now completely overspent my daily allowance of competence, creativity and cognitive functioning so I'm gonna go make a Powerpoint presentation.
posted by Alasdair Corbett at
11:32 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
Links to this post:
Create a Link
<< Home