Miss Write: Unplugged

This article made me so sad. And not just a brief moment of tut-tut-what-is-the-world-coming-to sad, but strong-desire-to-throw-my-laptop-out-of-the-window-and-drown-my-mobile-in-the-nearest-beverage sort of sad. Technology has been a part of my entire adult life – I got my first brick-like Nokia 3110 at about 13, way behind most teens at my streetwise school, and joined the dark cult of texting, instant messaging and constant miscommunication. I suppose when we flippantly say ‘technology’ we suppose it to be internet and mobile phone based ‘extras’, when of course the original landline phone is a piece of technology in itself. But it is the extras, seemingly endless, that are causing problems in my social sphere. Blackberries, iPhones, laptops and Wifi mean everyone is online everywhere they go; it is incredibly liberating in the sense that if you send someone a query via Facebook, Twitter, Blackberry messaging, voicemail or a good old fashioned text, you are pretty much guaranteed a response within minutes or hours. But on the other hand, it is incredibly frustrating if people don't or can't use one of these nifty mediums to get back to you. The basic assumption is that everyone is connected now, 24-7. No one is out of touch. Re-read that sentence. Is it a positive one? Are we even allowed to be out of touch?

I would describe myself as a technophobe, yet I am a Tweeter, a Facebooker, I have both webmail and Outlook accounts, an abandoned MySpace page, a Blackberry and a touchscreen phone. I had to be bullied into the latter as I was solemnly told by the 3Mobile goblins that only the touchscreens, Blackberries and ‘smartphones’ (the basic Nokia evidently the D student of the class) were compatible with the best contract deals. I stubbornly resisted for some time, until being coerced into purchasing a touchscreen LG this summer. This phone and I haven’t really settled into a honeymoon period yet; it sends blank and unfinished texts, its predictive dictionary is bizarrely devoid of any useable words and most unsettlingly, the display flips over into landscape from portrait if you so much as tilt the handset. I am clearly not as smart as my smartphone. If it even qualifies as a smartphone, which I suspect it does not. iPhones make me slightly queasy, and although I have a freebie BlackBerry which is very useful for free instant messaging and things like the GoogleMap application, it still has roughly four thousand logos standing for functions I can’t even begin to comprehend. So maybe I am just a technophobe by my generation’s standards.

I often come home from work to find three or four family members and friends perched on our sofas, each engrossed in the laptop in front of them. This remarkable combination of companionship and isolation is surreal to look at, but I know I have joined in on more than one occasion. My own laptop is no longer with us, having hung on admirably through six years, several knocks and drops, and resurrected itself more than once. It lasted its final months with the screen half hanging off, lots of amateur sellotape surgery holding it together and a tendency to simply switch off mid task. So now I watch people’s close relationships with their laptops with a certain detachment, before I rejoin their ranks in a month or so with a much-needed replacement for my impending student year. This woman’s description of her text and email-based relationship with her sons was a bit of a wake-up call, although it’s something I’ve been gradually coming round to for a while. How on earth do you break the cycle of cyber communication?

A couple of my friends have managed it; I may have to call them up via the alien device that is the landline phone and ask them if there is some sort of nirvana at the end of the process. The unfortunate fact is, for those who can’t bear to be out of the loop (and by the loop I mean recent photos of great days and nights out, invitations to future ones, and the general stream of wit and banter that Facebook has to offer) it is a huge step to remove oneself from a social networking site. I fear for my monastic ambitions to really take root, all of my favourite people would have to similarly shun the good ‘book and make a profound pact to call each other or, in a maverick twist, actually MEET UP to share conversation or pictures. There are people I haven’t seen for actual plural years who I consider myself ‘in touch’ with. Would the removal of myself from social cyberspace encourage more real-life contact and more tangible memories? Once something moves down the endless feed of Facebook debate and exhibitionism, it is forgotten. I’m just not sure what these endless options for instant communication are doing for our friendships.

Of course, there are so many advantages, logically speaking. With a Facebook message I can put out an idea of an outing, get everyone’s feedback (visible to all other guests) and summarise with the actual plan. Events are a fine way to get a head count and for people to RSVP easily, and I can’t say seeing people’s feedback on your photos is entirely disagreeable. But it brings out the worst in me and so many others. Trying to get over a break up in dignified silence? The temptation to make him feel bad and elicit sympathy from your friends will prove too much to resist. Getting married/having a baby/moving house? Boring people with the daily details is always a risk. Enraged by an acquaintance? Why not passive-aggressively bash out a generalized rant about ‘certain people’? Because if you drag your gaze away from the screen and glance in the mirror, you will see the distinct glaze of crazy in your eyes, that’s why.

So I’m considering the neo-Luddite route; Lily Allen’s done it twice (or thrice, it’s hard to keep track) but however much she tries, La Allen finds it just too damn simple to announce something like a pregnancy or a ‘retirement’ through a press release or an interview alone. Where’s the fanfare? There’s something deliciously controlling about reporting constantly on your own movements and actions. Even our parents are getting in on the act, if not seamlessly (my mum still asks us to ‘send’ her photos on Facebook, the tagging process continuing to elude her). The UK’s eldest Twitterer, Ivy Bean, recently passed away at the age of 103; greatly missed, if only for the quaint concept of being on Twitter at such a grand age. But I don’t like the fact that if someone’s busy, they can still be ‘in touch’ without having to actually see you. It is harder than it should be to explain why twelve texts and a funny wall post doesn’t constitute having seen someone, but maybe we don’t feel who is really there for us with this bizarre set-up of communication from all angles. Equally, maybe we are not really being there for a friend if we ask them what’s up on Facebook chat or respond to their Tweet. My biggest problems with the world of technology at the moment are the misunderstandings, the unread messages, and the odd frustration at those who are not as communicatively wired up as we are. It is easy to ‘overhear’ other friends planning or discussing a recent meet up on these mediums, and be offended at your exclusion. And in the event of heartbreak, the breaker is maddeningly visible to the breakee if they are not strong enough to hit that ‘remove’ button. Perhaps if we signed off, retired the mobiles and returned to a traditional phone call at least, we might get on a little better, move on a little faster, and say what actually needs to be said.

Of course, the major flaw is that I wouldn't be able to blog (or promote it in any way.) But I also wouldn't care who was reading, what they thought or if I was offending anybody. Today it feels infuriating that I want to do something so entangled in communication and self-marketing. In another life, or maybe a few years down the line, I would unplug everything, get away somewhere less polluted with the buzzing of phones and the pinging of emails, and do something very simple with my time. And maybe have clearer relationships as a result.

Holy Crap

I read a brilliant piece in yesterday's Stylist magazine by Alice Wignall ('Losing Our Religion?'). I think of Alice as a sort of mentor; not only because I've been lucky enough to work with her in the past, but because every time I'm thinking of giving up my creative ambitions and settling for something well-paid and immediate, one of her features will pop up and remind me of the sort of writer I'd love to be. She writes for everything from The Guardian to Cosmo - look out for the name. This article was about the recent notion of Britain turning on its formerly official religion, Christianity. The Archbishop of Canterbury has complained of a 'bullying campaign' in this country towards devout Christians, citing cases like nurse Shirley Chaplin from Devon who lost a tribunal against the hospital who banned her from wearing her crucifix necklace at work. This sort of discrimination claim really annoys me. Everyone's workplace has a dress code and a hospital's obviously has to be more rigid and sterile than most. The angle of this piece was more about the everyday Christians - young women who fear mentioning their piousness in the workplace in case people treat them differently.

It seemed quite topical to me, as just last week, a good friend was telling me about a colleague whose beliefs were becoming an issue. We all want to be tolerant and kind, but some Christians just ruin it for the rest of them by making it a huge part of their personality, conversation and identity. I have no qualms with the faith itself, but it should be just that - private, personal and just one aspect of a person. I don't like to be submerged in someone's views, just as I wouldn't pelt someone with incessant titbits about my love of musical theatre or garlicky foods. It's just not necessary. This is the kind of Christian that gets my goat. I remember going to the funeral of a friend in my teens, and another friend's mother remarking that such times made her so sorry for anyone that hadn't embraced God in their lives. I hated her for that, so ill-judged at a time when God had never seemed less fair or relevant.

Of course many practicing Christians manage to be quietly devout; a person first and a Christian second. I suppose I just link any sort of religious fervour loosely to madness*, and if you were unfamiliar with the bible, many of its teachings would indeed sound like the ravings of a lunatic. This, coupled with the person's affinity to a dogma that suggests many of my friends deserve to burn in hell for their lifestyle choices, does not a firm friendship make. Is that so terrible a reason to secretly judge someone? The Stylist piece quoted many women who admitted to feeling a 'discomfort' around someone on finding out they are a devout Christian. This does seem injust, but I know the feeling they refer to - it's a sort of 'Watch your step, this one has views' aversion - and the reason I know this is because it is not simply applicable to Christians. I feel the same kneejerk discomfort on finding out someone is teetotal (terrible, I know), a vegan or a Daily Mail reader. A hard-line Tory or a militant feminist are similarly so far outside my values and opinions that I will hesitate to treat them as I would a kindred spirit. Especially if they make their 'thing', whatever it be, a huge deal every single day. This is the only circumstance in which I can imagine a Christian would face mass criticism, and it seems to me that it is a very insecure person that needs to so heavily advertise their own religion.

There are numerous little things that put us off a person slightly (drinking milk straight out of the bottle and putting it back, anyone?) Just because they used to be the default religion for this country, some Christians appear to think people not wanting to hear their preaching is a terrible movement of persecution, when in fact most of us have simply moved on from all that. We abandon outdated laws and language from our culture all the time, why not religious ones? It's ok if you believe in God, but many of us also believe in our professional environment being free from such intense subject matter. That may seem like bullying to the Archbishop, but whacking an acquaintance over the head with your creationist beliefs is probably less bearable. So pipe down - we'll risk going to hell if it means we don't have to hear you thanking an invisible deity for your morning coffee.

* Shortly after posting this, I turned the page of the book I'm currently reading on the train, and saw an excellent description about how the humanist/logical mind processes the idea of religion:

The primitive thinking of the supernaturally inclined amounts to what [Henry Perowne's] psychiatric colleagues call a problem, or an idea, of reference. An excess of the subjective, the ordering of the world in line with your needs, an inability to contemplate your own unimportance. In Henry's view such reasoning belongs on a spectrum at whose far end, rearing like an abandoned temple, lies psychosis.

- Saturday, Ian McEwan

Ex and the Shitty

There was an item on The Wright Stuff today (my daytime guilty pleasure) about going on holiday with an ex, or a partner 'you can no longer stand.' (I have a bit of a problem with the latter description - who stays with someone they can't stand?) I've had some experience of this, having booked a holiday with a boyfriend a few years ago and ended up going together post-split, with a determination to have fun 'as friends.' I can advise that things are never that simple, however great your relationship was, and to instead bring a friend or even just go alone. Sitting alone on a beach is infinitely preferable to the emotional hell of two recent exes in foreign climes with only each other for company.

It was an interesting debate though. Several phone-ins revealed people who had found out their partner was cheating the day before a holiday and gone anyway (ouch), or couples where the relationship had clearly fizzled out, but they had a trip coming up so decided to patch things up for the duration. The problem is, and it's hard to see when there's money and unfamiliar destinations involved, that holidays are supposed to be relaxing. All of the things that warrant the payment - a break from work, sunshine, empty schedule - become blighted by uncomfortable silences, bickering or tension you could cut with a knife.

The whole 'friends with an ex' thing is a total minefield anyway. I am mildly suspicious of couples who move straight to being great chums, laughing at each others' jokes without a hint of bile and happily meeting new partners without any stabby thoughts. I always hope that I will end up as friends with an ex, but with the emphasis on 'end up' - with room for a quarantine period of hatred, drinking and secretly willing heavy objects to fall on them first. Maybe I'm just a horrible person or my relationships are too intense, but I've never been able to go, 'Ok bud, we've had fun - good luck with everything and call me anytime.' There are always a few stabby thoughts.

If we were totally honest, the next time you're really going to be able to wish your ex well is when you've moved on, be that with a full on new relationship or just a distracting crush. It's a terribly superficial thing, but the battle to prove you're not going to die alone always dominates post-breakup relations. As the winner of that race, you are elevated to smug, sympathetic pal who asks them how it's all going and encourages them to hang in there. The problem women tend to have with a split is wondering where all the feelings evaporate to, and trying to stay close and keep that person in their lives. Do we really need to? I think if you were friends first, or dated substantially (this is where the Americans have it so right) you have established common ground, great chat and a bond before things get physical, and thus have more of a shot at the friends thing. Equally, if you have lots of mutual friends, you're forced to make it civil which can turn out to be a great thing.

However, if it was a whirlwind thing cutting straight to the passion, chances are you were too high on hormones and butterflies in those early stages to really register a personality in the other person, and in this instance I say cut them loose. Chances are you have little or nothing in common and if there's no friend foundation it won't last anyway. The easiest thing to do is really hate someone, so it can be a gift if they've cheated, battered your self-esteem or broken up with you in some tacky way. Obviously it won't seem like it at first, but whack on the Alanis Morrisette, energetically clean things and dig out your dancing shoes. Rage is often the catalyst for speedy moving on.

I would be interested to hear some feedback on feelings towards exes - are they still the centre of your social life or just the centre of your dartboard? Would you go to their wedding years down the line or are they now simply a hilarious dinner party anecdote? I would also like to know how to avoid the evil thoughts period and float straight to benevolent smiles and best wishes. Are voodoo dolls and Oscar-worthy acting the only way? Let me know your thoughts.

Atonement

Lying in bed this morning, trying to prepare for an interview by catching up with the weekend's magazines and supplements, I came across a rare wave of honesty in a sea of upbeat features. I cannot criticize the novelty and wit of the entertaining pieces that for the most part fill our national magazines, they are the sort of thing I like to write myself: general musings on current or trending topics. But now and again a piece is commissioned that is distinctly less comfortable, jarring with your weekend cuppa and comfy sofa. The Guardian is good at slipping these in; just the other week I was both sickened and compelled by an investigative piece about child abuse and social work cases which was emotional yet detached, and intensely uncomfortable to read. But I learned something and was glad I hadn't instinctively flipped the page. Saturday's Guardian Weekend mag was its usual mix of style, famous faces, a nod to politics and gastronomy, but the article that caught my eye was an unassuming black and white two-pager by novelist Lionel Shriver.

I'm slightly embarrassed to admit that I haven't read any of Shriver's books, even though her comment pieces in various magazines and papers have always stood out to me just as this one did. Having heard of her via several recommendations to read We Need to Talk abut Kevin from a couple of years back, I wasn't even aware until last year that the author was female (real name Margaret Ann.) Shriver has a knack for completely baring her soul while keeping her writing succinct, factual and candid. The piece that caught my eye was this one, a confessional outpouring of regret at not spending more time with her best friend before she died of cancer. Outpouring isn't the right word, actually - it was a critical analysis of her own behaviour during her friend's terminal illness. With cancer seemingly everywhere, it can seem overexposed or not 'niche' enough (in the businesslike world of planning and editing a magazine) to gain sympathy with a mainstream audience, but this wasn't a cancer awareness piece - this, it seemed, was a bid for atonement, a small act that might cancel out her professed neglect prior to losing her friend.

It might seem self-indulgent or distasteful to use the death of a loved one to talk about your own feelings, but how else do we make sense of something as cruel and superior as cancer? After years of finding we cannot combat it, even where we can stall and delay it, the topic has fallen fairly silent in the media in favour of more exotic conditions or winnable wars. The article is about a universal fear of those around us dying, and how people use their busy modern lives and commitments to avoid immersing themselves in such everyday tragedy. I recognised myself in the writer. I have always had a slight neurosis about hospitals (I hesitate to say phobia) and not because I find myself overwhelmed with feeling and compassion for their patients, but because, well... they're full of ill people. This is not an attractive trait, and one I had to overcome many times when my elder sister's genetic disease deteriorated over a period of years. The sterile smells, the neon lighting and the whirr of machinery is imprinted on my brain, and I do fear selfishly for my own eventual demise. The thought of slipping away in the habitat I can least endure is a terrifying prospect. And all this without ever suffering a serious illness or a hospital stint since my fairly uneventful birth.

So Shriver's tale of how she let anxiety about her dying friend lead her to distract herself with her career and her schedule really struck me. When my sister was ill, I feel I was there as much as someone at university in another city could be there - I remember reading through Measure for Measure out loud by her bedside while a ventilator breathed for her, and making notes for my exam the following day. I remember people in the waiting room kindly asking what my essays were about as I scribbled them from a plastic seat, waiting for visiting hours to resume. But I also remember the elation of being 'free' to return to my new friends and social life the minute she was stable, and I do remember the fleeting disappointment, even resentment, at missing the new term's parties and socials. I would never have dared admit it at the time, but I was scheduling her in along with my exam timetable. Maybe I can only admit this now because she did get better (thanks to the wonders of organ donation) and as a product of my relief at still having many more years to make memories with her.

The problem is, drama and literature would have us believe that good people rush to the bedside of a dying friend or relative, dropping everything and cancelling all plans to make their last days or months a little easier. But the spanner in the works is the long, drawn-out nature of modern death. No one deserves it, and it shouldn't be an excuse, but it is simply impractical and impossible to be there and undiverted for months or years of ill-health and uncertainty, and the guilt we suffer for not being there enough can be unbearable. Shriver's guilt is that her career as a novelist was just taking off as her friend Terri was diagnosed, but would Terri really have wanted her to put that on hold to sit by her through the bad times? Another problem for the writer was that her friend couldn't or wouldn't bring herself to consider the inevitable, leading their meetings and lighthearted talk to become heart-wrenching for Shriver:

Pretending that the treatments were working and she was going to come through this injected an artifice in our relationship at odds with the confidences we'd shared for 25 years.

She notes that the last bit of time they had together, the two women 'spent an appalling proportion of that final visit talking about mashed potatoes.' I can understand how hard this must have been as the friend, but I am also of the belief that the way someone wants to play out their own death is the way it should be. If they want to be their own cheerleader, rooting for a miracle, then everyone around them should wipe their tears and grab their pom-poms. If the ill person wants to talk through their greatest fears and cry for all the things they'll never see and do, then their beloved should provide the Kleenex and a listening ear. I don't think there should be any guilt on Shriver's part, because she was giving her friend what she needed at the time, even if that was potato-mashing tips. There is no right way to support an ill loved one. Every person copes differently, and no one else can say how you'd feel and what you'd want if you were the one sentenced to your final months. All you can do is make time, scale down, and adapt. For those who recognize mine and Shriver's instinct to flee the situation, you are not a bad person. You are simply the person who dares to admit it.

The Best Medicine

I don't know about you, but I'm in need of some smile therapy right now. Newly single, I am reminded of the moment in the SATC movie when jilted Carrie asks 'Will I ever laugh again?' and Miranda advises her that she will - 'When something is really, really funny.' As I'm not prepared to sit around waiting for my friends to soil themselves, I have to make my own amusement, and here are some of my quick-fix remedies to give you an instant lift:

Glee. Every line, every song - the whole concept is absolute gold. Become a Gleek and every week will get off to a better start.

Reading snippets from spoof US News site The Onion at your desk. Silly, perfectly crafted and an instant laughter drug. Also loving my horoscope on there this week: 'You'll find happiness at the end of the rainbow this week, though to be fair, it's the kind often found hanging outside of gay clubs.'

Really creamy, cinammon-laced hot chocolate. Not laughter exactly, but a smile and a warming glow from top to toe can't hurt.

Reading badly written erotic literature with your bestest girl friends (you know who you are.)

Chick flicks with a twist - I recommend mockumentary Drop Dead Gorgeous, high school Heathfest 10 Things I Hate About You and Tina Fey-scripted Mean Girls.

Extra-curricular fun: No, not playing away, but joining a club or team. Rehearsing with the choir I am part of is one of the most laughter-filled evenings of my week. Slightly music-geeky joking and the fact that we don't take ourselves too seriously means it's less work, more play.

Dave on TV - Russell Howard's little-boy delight in the world makes Mock The Week the prozac of panel shows, and the sharp minds and witty one-liners on Have I Got News for You and QI also do the trick.

Revisiting an old favourite. I am re-reading Bridget Jones: The Edge of Reason on the train, and had forgotten how funny it is. Brilliant for realizing you're not the cringiest of females quite yet.

Overhearing the bizarre dialogue or phone conversation of a fellow train passenger. I'm not sure why this works for me, but the weirder the better.

Catching yourself in a moment of extra-strength crazy - think imaginary scenarios, almost-sent texts, facebook stalking or being overly riled by the tone of a Starbucks barista. It's oddly reassuring to laugh at yourself.

Do comment with smile-inducing tips and tricks if you can - the tiny things in life can really make or break your day, and mine are looking a little bleak at the moment...