tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6496460488742488789.post7395327604397661519..comments2024-03-18T10:29:46.055+00:00Comments on Ken Armstrong Writing Stuff: Doors to ManualKen Armstronghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07775956557261111127noreply@blogger.comBlogger2125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6496460488742488789.post-17818890060034670612014-09-21T14:26:11.998+01:002014-09-21T14:26:11.998+01:00We've discussed the many ways I value your com...We've discussed the many ways I value your comments in other places. One aspect I may not have mentioned is how I get the 'up to the minute you' in these comments. I know your posts on the blog are often subject to a time-delay before they appear so, at the back of things, I know that I'm not reading 'today's Jim' but maybe 'last week's Jim' or even 'last month's Jim'. That's fine, obviously, but it's good to get the real-time input too.<br /><br />I'm sorry to read that the real-time Jim is a bit poorly at the moment and hope all that gets better soon. <br /><br />For what it's worth, I feel your canon of writing work will only gain in appreciation as the years progress and after we both have pushed up a few daisies. That will be good, I reckon. :)<br />Ken Armstronghttps://www.blogger.com/profile/07775956557261111127noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6496460488742488789.post-59137714635387143372014-09-21T13:12:47.017+01:002014-09-21T13:12:47.017+01:00I don’t know if writers are more prone to this but...I don’t know if writers are more prone to this but I do feel we spend most of our lives with our dicks out. I’ve just commented on another blog where its author was on about the need to read good books. Now I’m not against reading good books but I made a point to him about why it doesn’t hurt to read a bad book or two. If we spend all our lives comparing ourselves to the greats well that would cause most of us the shrivel up and die. I am never going to be Samuel Beckett. I’ve given it my best shot, got it out of my system (I hope) just as he did with Joyce but now it’s time to be me and be content being me. When I read a bad book—whatever a ‘bad book’ is—especially one that’s been traditionally published I generally come away with a thought like: <i>Well, I’m better than </i>him<i> and </i>he<i> got published so why not me?</i> The reason I’ve not been traditionally published is I’ve not tried hard enough. It’s the reason I’m not rich. It never mattered that much to me. My best friend at school has a yacht. We haven’t spoken in some twenty-five years but I looked him up on Facebook a couple of years back after stumbling across the obituary of another school friend (my first love as it happens) and I suddenly felt a strong need to see if he was still alive and kicking. Which he is. Very much so. And that pleases me. I wrote him a letter—to get stuff out of my system—but then (wisely—I can be wise when the need arises) never sent it. The reason we’re no longer a part of each other’s lives is that our lives headed off in completely different directions and it was becoming more and more of an effort to even think of things to talk about when we were together. Apart from the past and one can only feast on past triumphs for so long.<br /><br />Life comes with limits. I went to the practice nurse a few weeks back for my annual asthma check and as usual she weighed and measured me. I’d lost a pound or two since last time and half an inch which slightly depressed me because I was never exactly tall to begin with. I’m down to 5' 6½" apparently. Maybe I was slouching. Let’s say I was slouching. But even accounting for the slouching I’m never going to be 6' 3". I seem to recall giving some advice to a youngster some years ago who was frustrated about not being all he or she (actually I think it was a she) could be: Be the best you you can be. Again this is not an original thought but I’ve no idea who we should credit with coming up with it first. I’m never going to climb Everest. I’m never going to learn to play the violin. Or the sackbut. It is possible I could learn to be pleased with what I have achieved. I’m not well at the moment. No idea where we’re going with this but I’m writing less and less—says the guy who just tossed off a novella a few weeks back and is now dismissing it as if that was nothing, a glitch almost—and I’m even running out of blog posts. But let’s imagine for a moment that I wrote nothing again after I finish this comment to you. Have I done enough?<br /><br />I did what I could. Could I have done more? If I had would it’ve been any better? We always assume that the stuff we never did would’ve been better than the stuff we did do. Makes no sense. I said what I had to say as intelligently as eloquently as I was able to at the time. Did I say something worthwhile? I think so. I believe so. I bloody well hope so. Regret’s an odd feeling. It’s also a most unhelpful one. Love I have use for. Even hate. Regret’s like a handbrake. It’s all to do with the past—which is immutable—and yet how does hobbling the future help the past? If you can’t write, read. If you can’t read, go for a walk or if it’s chucking it down watch TV or listen to some music. Life’s for living. Living is a verb, a doing thing. Do something. Do what you can. Don’t whinge about what you’re clearly incapable of. And for Christ’s sake don’t start going on that life’s unfair. You play the cards you’re dealt. But as any card sharp’ll tell you it’s less about what you’ve got in your hand and more about your ability to keep your face straight.Jim Murdochhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/12786388638146471193noreply@blogger.com