Category: writing

Technical writing is about clarity; marketing copy writing is about obfuscation.

Mixing of the two will lead to widespread panic, packs of roving hamsters, destruction of property, impaired judgement, and irritable writers.

Over at Webraw, Eric raises the issue of censorship. Specifically, “How much longer until >>YOUR EMPLOYER<< shuts down your blog like http://www.denishorgan.com?”

Eric’s comments are worrysome… not only because he highlights a threat to freedom of thought and expression, but also because in his effort to comply with the desires of his own employer, he has effectively given away essential rights and freedoms. What possible right does an employer have to curtail a personal creative work that’s done on personal time?

Events like the closing of Denis Horgan’s site seem to be more common these days. We see legal fights over the employer’s desire to control their employees versus the right to freedom of expression. More and more, corporations are taking the legal postion that employees are chattel: the activities and ideas of employees fall under the control and ownership of the employer. This is very wrong.

An example is the case in which DSC Communications fired an employee because the employee wouldn’t surrender an idea that he had (link). This idea was unrelated to his job, concieved on his personal time, and wasn’t written down.

With the popularization of blogs, it’s more important than ever to draw a defining line between one’s work life and personal life. It’s a frightening prospect to imagine a world in which thoughts and opinions may only come from corporate HQ. The right to freedom of expression means having protection from those who seek to silence you, to control you, and essentially to own you.

In addition to the user manuals, I occasionally dabble in creative writing. In fact, I’ve written the first page or two of several short stories. I’ve started bits of certain scenes in a couple of plays. I even have an outline for my first novel, which is currently in a corner of my hard drive gathering moss. I guess you’d call it my sphagnum opus.

Yes, that was the whole point of this entry, and for that, I apologize.

“Those people wouldn’t know artistic integrity if it jumped out of a hedge and bit them on their soft, dangly parts,” Doug said thoughtfully before returning to the moment. “Well, maybe that was a bit harsh.”

The pub was dark by this point. It was after 10pm, by which time the waitress had taken the helm at the dimmer switches and lowered the lights to approximately a shade darker than “Intimate” on the mood-lighting scale. Possibly closer to the “Hide the Rat-infested Filth” marker, in fact. Doug examined the pub.

A couple at the jukebox flipped endlessly through the albums, playing that back-and-forth game of finding out that their musical tastes don’t actually mesh completely when put in practice. This was quickly followed by a thinly-veiled struggle for dominance at the jukebox controls. In the end, war was averted because he had the loose change to pay for it – so they compromised and she chose the songs.

Next to them at the pool table was a foursome enjoying a game. Random chit-chat was punctated by the occasional explosion of laughter at a closely-missed shot. The waitress, Wendy, slipped past them, between the regulars, and back to the bar. Her trips were like little moonshots from the homebase of the bartop and out between the unheavenly bodies in seats. In and out she wound, dodging one and orbiting another, until she touched the far corner by the fireplace before falling gently back through the masses to terra firma for another pitcher or two.

Doug turned his attention to his companion in the booth. Bob’s head popped up over the edge of the table for a furtive, darting glance at the smoky environment. He then dropped back to his original pose with his head resting comfortably on his forepaws.

The conversation between them had almost dried completely, Doug realized, so he looked to tying things up.

“Let me tell you,” he temporized, “I have been to a lot of Ice Capades shows, and those sorry bastards wouldn’t know artistic integrity if it jumped out and bit them. And that would be a generous favour.”

By this time, Bob had completely lost interest and had burrowed his head into the safety of Doug’s burlap backpack. Inside the bag, the cat slithered in circle a couple of times before settling down carefully with his tail curled around and over his paws. His watchful eyes peered out the darkened opening.

Presently, the waitress docked herself at the table long enough to drop the carefully-folded tab before moving on. Glacing at the total, Doug grimaced. He dragged a couple of unwilling twenties from the safety of his wallet and threw their poor bodies onto the bonfire of his life.

“Well, Bob, it looks like we’ve used this place up.” With that, he slid free of the booth table and stood on slightly wobbly legs. “Come on, Bob.” Doug swung the pack up and over his left shoulder, making Bob emit a kind of indignant “Mwerp!”

Outside, the chill cut suddenly into him, and he pulled his coat closer to his body.

“Alright back there, Bob?” Doug called over his shoulder.

“Ow,” commented Bob.

The phone rang and Doug lifted it absently.

“Hello?”

“Dude! You’re eating my sight!”

“What?”

“My sight! You’re eating my sight RIGHT NOW!”

Doug paused a second or two before starting cautiously. “Um…,” he said in a measured tone. “Who is this?”

“It’s Bill, dude!” The voice rose in pitch by about a fifth. “And you’re eating my sight! Right now! Don’t deny it.”

“Bill, I have no idea what you’re trying to say. Are you on something?” Doug rubbed the bridge of his nose, as he heard an exasperated sigh from the phone’s earpiece.

“You told me,” Bill said in a lowered tone, “that you would never visit my sight.”

Doug frowned deeply for a moment before a loose object in his brain fell suddenly into place. “Oh! Site! You mean your website!”

“Yes!” shouted Bill. “You… are… reading… my… site. You said you never would, but I caught you!”

Although he couldn’t actually see Bill at the moment, Doug could almost hear him leaning closer to the phone as Bill whispered, “I have your IP address in my server log, you bastard.”

“Bill?” Doug began gently. “You’re a moron.”

Silence.

“Oh. Well. Um…,” Bill responded, which he followed with a barely audible click of the reciever.