Reclaiming 43 Folders [en]

[fr] De plus en plus de blogs semblent prendre la route du "multi-auteurs, revenu pub" -- et j'en suis attristée. Merlin Mann, auteur du célèbre 43 Folders, fait machine arrière, et reprend possession de son blog. Ça me fait chaud au coeur.

I was very happy to read this post by Merlin Mann titled Time, Attention, and Creative Work. Here’s an excerpt:

5. This is my site. There are many like it, but this one is mine
43 Folders is now, once again, about what I have to say about things, and I want that to be the sole reason that the idea of a visit here either attracts or repels you.

Yes, there will still be occasional guest posts, open threads, and of course, I’ll be linking to and quoting widely from the work of others. But I’m taking a cue from John, Andy, Jason, and anybody else who wants to own every pixel of their site. I’m buying back my own stock, even if it incurs a short-term writedown.

Over the last year, I’ve been increasingly saddened that a number of personal blogs I love (not least /Message, by my dear friend Stowe Boyd), have morphed into multi-author “media outlets” complete with ad revenue. And I’m glad to see 43 Folders coming back from that.

I discovered 43 Folders roughly two years ago when it was still Merlin’s site, and it was my starting-point for understanding what this GTD thing was many people were talking about. I visited regularly (by my standards — I’m a lousy blog reader) but at some point, 43 Folders changed.

Instead of dropping in at “my pal Merlin’s” to see what he had to say today, it felt like dropping into a noisy bar. And I’m a person who prefers a quiet heart-to-heart conversation around a cup of tea to an evening hanging out at the bar.

So, welcome back, Merlin. It’s nice to see you again.

The man seems pleasant, until I notice [en]

The man seems pleasant, until I notice the earwax. I follow him off the train and clean his ear with my knife before I cut his throat. I can’t stand earwax. I go home and change; I’m late for work. Bob tells me off again. Pity his ears are clean.

Rhonda is a psionic half-elf, born to [en]

Rhonda is a psionic half-elf, born to be a misfit. Why she chose to run for president is beyond me. But people like her — there’s always some suspicion, though, with those psionics. I’m in charge of her security, and this time, the anonymous dragon threat we received seems serious.

The five shared a coworking space [en]

The five shared a coworking space in the city centre. Many others came and went, dropped in and stopped by, but there was always the five of them. They dated, got married, had children, won the lottery, divorced, hooked up with a millionaire. Lived lives. Then the building was destroyed.

Twibbles fled out of the flat, waddled [en]

Twibbles fled out of the flat, waddled hastily down the stairs (no rolling down, phew) and waited patiently by the door.

The humans sure were noisy today.

Pee on bushes. Catch some exercise (that belly) and eat rubbish (the best).

Kidnapped. Bite. Escape. 150 miles to home. Much fitter.

John cannot stop writing. He's only a few [en]

John cannot stop writing. He’s only a few days ahead.

The enchanted notebook freed his ideas and gave him a story. But to his horror, he has ended up writing the world.

He dreads reaching the last pages — if time doesn’t catch up with his writing before then.

Five people on the last train to Lausanne [en]

Five people on the last train to Lausanne. They don’t know each other… yet.

By dawn, I will have brought four of them to kill each other, and dealt with the fifth.

I’ll plead insanity — but trust me, there was nothing insane about this. I just saved the world.

Involuntary laptop exchange at the office [en]

Involuntary laptop exchange at the office. Saved passwords and unhealthy curiosity. Suzy was after some gossip, but ended up with way more than she could handle. She paid it with her life, but not before doing her country a great service and finally finding a meaning to her life.

He was preoccupied. Twenty miles later [en]

He was preoccupied. Twenty miles later, he realized that the car he was driving wasn’t his. There was an unconscious girl on the back seat.

They fled through the country, narrowly escaping death more than once. They never found her daughter, but many years later, had one of their own.

50 Words [en]

[fr] Ce soir, j'ai eu pas moins de 13 idées d'histoires courtes (50 mots). J'en ai écrites 5 dans le train en rentrant, et 8 attendent d'être développées. Du coup, j'ai décidé de les reposter ici, au lieu de squatter les commentaires de Vince systématiquement. Va aussi falloir que je m'y mette en français, pardi!

Tonight was almost magical. On the train home, I wrote no less than five 50 word short stories. Then on the way home from the station (bus and walking), thought up starting-points for eight more.

I started out feeling a little shy about posting them here, so have been parasiting Vince’s comments in the post above. I feel like I want to have these stories here, too, so I’m going to be back-posting them to CTTS. I’ll use the tag “50words” to keep track of them, so you can see them all on one page by clicking on that link.

One thing I understood tonight is that I don’t have to feel capable of writing a novel based on the idea I develop in 50 words. I can make up a 50 word story about a serial killer, even if I know I wouldn’t have the beginning of a clue how to portray one.

It’s liberating.