Digiwrimo: (re)draw the routine

Tanya Lau (@tanyalau)  By day, I am usually implementing online learning initiatives at a large government agency in Sydney. At other times, I can be found exploring and experiencing life with my son, erratically connecting with intriguing people on the internet, facilitating edcontexts.org, and occasionally trying to complete a masters dissertation. I tweet as @tanyalau and blog at explorationsinlearning.wordpress.com

Lights through a rainy window

flickr photo by RichK   shared under a Creative Commons (BY-SA) license

When I first started thinking about this post, I imagined I might try to create an activity that explored the use of visuals to communicate in some sort of weird and interesting way, artistic, fun and far removed – a distraction from? – the routine, mundane writing that we’re all required to do, day to day as part of our day to day work, in the office or at home: reports, emails, briefing notes, specifications documents, forms, essays, research papers, dissertations…

Handwritten words: #DIGIWRIMO "visual" theme post[Image: DigiwriMo post header, by @tanyalau]
Doodle of words Creative, Art, Weird and some ???

[Image: DigiwriMo weird art?, by @tanyalau]

But as I started thinking about what that activity might be, my mind kept returning to a tweet from my friend Bruno – something he said when he was deciding whether or not to participate in #digiwrimo:

Handwritten text of above tweet

[Image: Bruno’s DigiWriMo tweet, by @tanyalau]

It’s been nagging at me, because it’s making me think: well, why shouldn’t or couldn’t #digiwrimo help directly with our routine or work-related writing – rather than being seen as a distraction preventing us from getting back to the *real* writing?

Words: Why Not Digiwrimo helps with job work writing?

[Image: DigiwriMo why not?, by @tanyalau]

So I started thinking about the types of everyday writing and communication that I do, and remembered some of the things I’d seen recently from people who are doing inspiring things to make these types of writing and communication more visual, interesting, engaging – and, ultimately more effective:

Words: inspiration. Nick Sousanis, sketchnoting, doctoral thesis

[Image: DigiwriMo inspiration, by @tanyalau]

Nick Sousanisgraphic novel Doctoral dissertation:

Hand drawn male head with scarf round face

[Image from Sousanis, N (2015) ‘Unflattening’ http://www.hup.harvard.edu/catalog.php?isbn=9780674744431 via Studio 99 ‘Unflattened’ https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j5SicXrnOYU]

Hand drawn Mona Lisa

Silhouette of girl

[Images: from Sousanis, N (2015) ‘Unflattening’ http://www.hup.harvard.edu/catalog.php?isbn=9780674744431 via http://boingboing.net/2015/06/21/doctoral-dissertation-in-graph.html]

Conference sketchnoters

Image of sketchnotes

[Image: Twitter search #sketchnote, photos https://twitter.com/search?f=images&vertical=default&q=%23sketchnote&src=typd, retrieved 29th October, 2015]

Visual reports….like this example from Toby Hewitt, who reported the results of his training needs analysis as an infographic.


[Image: Training Needs Analysis infographic by Toby Hewitt https://image-store.slidesharecdn.com/fecb4066-0dec-4ec6-9a88-a3d8f4a730b8-original.png via LinkedIn status update, September 2015 https://www.linkedin.com/nhome/updates?topic=6050060917800984576&]

The question I then asked myself was:

“How could I apply or adapt this type of visual thinking to my own work-related writing to improve communication, learning, engagement or understanding?”

How could I apply this to my own work?

[Image: DigiwriMo how can I apply these ideas?, by @tanyalau]

During digiwrimo, I’m going to take these ideas, adapt and hack them to my own situation; to take a document, a meeting, a conversation, an email, tweet, post, blog comment, report, shopping list, reminder note (anything!) – routine writing or communication that I do on a daily basis – and explore and experiment with it to find new, different and interesting ways to interpret and communicate its message primarily using visuals. (Starting with attempting to sketchnote this post).

Another thing I’ve been wanting to do more for a while is to experiment, play with and explore, and use digital tools for creating sketchnotes, infographics and data visualisation. Seeing as #digiwrimo = digital writing month, I’m going to use this opportunity to give myself the kick up the backside I need to actually Do It – and to share my endeavours and experiments with the #digiwrimo community.

I will try

[Image: DigiwriMo visual thinking, by @tanyalau]

And, in the spirit of digiwrimo, I’d like to encourage you to do the same.

More visual thinking inspiration

Visual notetaking in 3rd grade:


Nick Sousanis’ experiment in visual thinking:


Thinking differently using sketchnotes:


Ideas for creating visual notes:


A story about letting go of fear and sharing ideas visually: 


Digital tools to experiment with

iPad apps for sketchnoting:


Android sketchnoting apps:


10 free infographic tools:


20 free data visualisation tools:


Sounds and Stories

Maha Abdelmoneim @maha4learning : I have an unquenchable thirst for learning and for sharing what I learn, that stems from an ever inquisitive mind, a sense of wonder that I hope I never lose and a genuine, strong interest in people and in helping them find new ways. Currently working as an independent consultant, I’ve been in the field of Learning and Development since 1992 as an instructional designer, trainer and coach. Just a few of the things I love doing and/or exploring are Teaching and Learning in Virtual Worlds, learning and teaching languages, photography, experimenting with Web tools, playing World of Warcraft and making corn cake (this is new).

Frankfurt train station

Frankfurt Airport Train Station By zug55 under CC Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 2.0

Several weeks ago I saw Laura Ritchie’s tweet announcing her new online course about music.Calling all musicians! Come join is!

I was immediately curious. I decided to take a look at the content of the course and perhaps sample parts of it that I find interesting to me as a music amateur. I don’t think I had really thought about what I expected to find in the course, but the first session had a couple of interesting surprises that changed how I listen to the world around me.

Like many, I already had a general idea about how some places are acoustically better than others. I knew that how a space is built affects how everything sounds within it — I am sure many of us experienced the frustration of not being able to understand a word of what is being announced in some places, like an airport or a train station; but I discovered much more about acoustics and sound listening to the audio file Aural Architecture (a 26 minutes long, very interesting and informative audio. If you are pressed for time listen to the first 5 minutes. and save the rest for later) I learned that everything around us has a distinct sound, that we actually hear our spaces, walls and all, even if we don’t consciously realize it, and that we can learn to hear more of our surroundings. As Laura says:

“Listening is a skill, and just as people may say someone has developed ‘an eye for detail’, being able to hone in listening is a valuable skill that can be developed and refined throughout learning.”

As a first step to train our ears to listen and hear more, Laura has a task that inspired me to pay attention to the sounds around me. I am quoting part of the task here and you can see the complete description of the task on Laura’s blog.

“Task: Capture your experience of the surface of sound around you. Choose a place and create a soundscape using your phone or another recording device. Before you make your recording, take a photo or video of the place and take time to really be aware of what you are recording and how the sounds are woven or collide to form that canvas. Write a full description of the place, including photos or videos if possible, and list all the sounds you have captured – do this right away so you have everything fresh in your mind.”

I didn’t participate in the task online but I got very involved in the experiment for days, and I still do it whenever I remember or notice something new. I went around my apartment and my terrace with my phone, recording different normal daily activities and spaces.

Here are three examples of sounds that I captured from my terrace.

Street vendor 1

This is a street vendor in Cairo calling “Bekkia” . This is short for “Robabekkia” which is not an Arabic word at all. it is originally from the Italian “Roba Vecchia” and means Old Things. Those vendors go around buying and selling any used things — except glass, I discovered. I realized what they are saying because I speak Italian but most Egyptians don’t have a clue where the word comes from, they only know what it means. I wonder how it got to us?

Street vendor 2

Man pushing gas cylinders

Bharat Gas Bike by Meena Kadri under CC Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 2.0


This picture is of an Indian vendor, not an Egyptian one, because I couldn’t find any from Egypt — something that I need to remedy :) , but ours are almost identical. They go around banging on their tricycles to announce their presence to the residents who still use cylinders — most buildings now have piped natural gas.

Early Morning

This is what I hear sitting on the terrace, in my favorite corner, very early in the morning, as early as 5 or 6 am, depending on when the sun starts to come up and the birds start to chirp.  



Chair and plant pots on a patio

This picture is taken later in the day.

Soooo, it’s your turn now.


Listening Ears

My Listening Ears by Niclas Lindh under CC Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 2.0

Put on your listening ears and switch on whatever sound recording device you want. Record some sounds from your daily activities, your surroundings, your world. Listen to them and see what you find. Tell us some Stories with Pictures and Sounds, in text or with your voice or both. Use any tool you like, experiment with a new one, shout out if you want to learn a new tool and would like some company learning or want to collaborate with a bunch of us. Learn, create, enjoy and don’t forget to share. :)

An Activity: Make Writing …Digital

We hope you will share your work across the various Digital Writing Month spaces that you inhabit. That could be right here at the Digital Writing Month blog; at your own blog or writing space; on Twitter with the #DigiWriMo hashtag; in the DigiWriMo Google Plus Community; at the DigiWriMo Facebook page; or wherever you find yourself writing digitally.

Essential Silence

Chris Friend (@chris_friend) teaches first-year writing classes, manages Hybrid Pedagogy, produces the podcast HybridPod, and needs to give his personal website its first facelift in three years. He lives near Tampa, Florida, USA.

flickr photo by Thomas Leuthard http://flickr.com/photos/thomasleuthard/8660104345 shared under a Creative Commons (BY) license

flickr photo by Thomas Leuthard http://flickr.com/photos/thomasleuthard/8660104345 shared under a Creative Commons (BY) license

(Audio version by Chris embedded at the end of this post.)

I attended a funeral last month. I wanted to speak, but I couldn’t — not for the lump in my throat or the tears in my eyes or any of the affective, funereal reasons. No, I didn’t speak because of logistics. When the officiant asked for volunteers to step forward and offer their remembrances, she made eye contact with That One Brave Soul who said before-hand that she would talk. Once she was at the podium, the speaker dazzled us by donning a feather boa and a festive costume hat (the deceased loved Halloween). The speaker made us laugh with character descriptions that were just on the truthful side of slanderous. She made us cry with confessions of missed opportunities to share her feelings in time.

Then she stepped down from the podium, and The Silence set in.

We’ve all seen it. We’ve been in rooms that are awkward and pensive, where people are contemplating what, when, and whether to speak. Or we’ve been in rooms where the general noise of chatter inexplicably fades to momentary silence, shattered by shards of tension-releasing self-conscious laughter. Or perhaps we’ve attended a concert where the applause holds off for a moment or two after the final note fades away. That one moment — that pause, that stillness, that calm before the storm — is electric, filled with anticipation, bursting with emotional awareness.

When the funeral service was afflicted by The Silence, the officiant decided to keep things moving. She took the silence as a lack of participation. For many in the audience, it may have been time they needed to build their confidence or their composure. I was waiting for the right moment, and for a couple more ideas to fall into place, before offering my thoughts. But that “right moment” never came; the officiant moved along without me.

And that’s the trouble with group conversations and speech: Timing is everything. The way we build in and work with natural pauses in our thinking and storytelling can help or hinder the audience in profound ways.

Readers can create those pauses whenever they need; they simply stop reading for a moment. One strategically placed finger lets a reader take all the time they want to think, to process, to digest, to respond, to take notes, or do practically anything else before returning to the same spot and resuming the story.

Listeners, though, especially those listening to material being broadcast, don’t have that same ability. Pausing the radio isn’t as simple. And while pausing a podcast is technically simple, it may be difficult — many people listen to podcasts while driving or doing other things that keep their hands busy at the time. Recorded audio is like conversation with an invisible — but very present — audience. We have to keep their needs, their thinking, and their timing in mind. That means adding a pause when the audience needs time to process. Or repeating something if it’s easy to miss on the first go-around. Teachers do this all the time with their live, in-person classes. But authors/composers owe their future audiences the same consideration.

With both text and audio, the pacing of what we say has to be carefully crafted to help the audience process what we’re saying. Marks of punctuation serve critical roles in helping readers understand the flow of our words and ideas, providing stage direction and speed limits for our inner voice to navigate. Working with audio, though, the speaker has almost exclusive control over that navigation, and we cannot forget that responsibility.

Audio is far more intimate than text. The vibrations of our vocal chords shake the air that shakes a microphone. Recreations of that sound through speakers or headphones then shake the air that then shakes listener’s eardrums. As Anne Fernald explained in the “Musical Language” episode of the podcast Radiolab, “sound is kind of touch…at a distance.” The more we talk, the more we share that touch with our audience. But sometimes, we have to slow down, to back off, to give our audience space.

This is something I often struggle with as I create episodes of HybridPod, the podcast extension of Hybrid Pedagogy. (Coincidentally, HybridPod grew from an experiment I conducted during DigiWriMo 2014. But I digress.) When I interview people for the episodes, our conversations follow a natural rhythm, pausing and accelerating as needed. But when I edit the conversations together into a single story, I have to consciously include the right amount of time for where breaths and thoughtful contemplation should go. When I create an audio story, I have to create space for the audience’s reaction. I really have to attend to the timing needs of my future listeners.

Even though I still struggle to create the right pacing, I want to provide a simple example of how quickly silence can draw attention to itself and how effectively it can be used.

In an episode of 99% Invisible (a podcast about design, architecture, and the built world around us), producer Roman Mars helped a reporter describe the structure of CitiCorp Tower, a building that was the centerpiece of the episode. Mars tells about several unexpected features of the building, making it sound like the thing shouldn’t be able to exist. The design sounds magical…or physically impossible, with structural supports in the middle of walls, rather than their corners, and with massive amounts of open air beneath the solid mass of the building. He ends the setup this way:

“It does not look sturdy. But it’s gotta be sturdy. It’s gotta be safe, or they wouldn’t have built it this way…right?”

That momentary pause, that fleeting hesitation — the one I’ve represented with an ellipsis — lasts only a fraction of a second, but it’s enough time for listeners to stop, take notice, and predict that the worried “Right?” is coming. For a show all about design, questioning the safety of a structure is kind of a big deal. (The episode’s title is “Structural Integrity” for that very reason.) That pause allows just enough time for listeners to reach the kinds of conclusions and skepticism and discomfort that the reporters want at that moment in the story. Basically, at just over two minutes in, they wind us up. Then they spend another twenty minutes bringing us back down again.

Things can unfold in the opposite direction, as well. Audio stories can be so personal, so intimate, and so raw that they unavoidably evoke a visceral reaction from listeners.  Uncomfortable or unpleasant stories take an emotional toll on us, and we need time and opportunity to regain our composure.

I recall one episode of Radiolab — a podcast I respect and admire — that included a segment about “yellow rain” containing a deeply unsettling interview in which the interviewee was brought to tears by difficult subject matter and inappropriately callous interviewing practices, and she called off the rest of the conversation. The producers knew her frustration and breakdown were hard to listen to, so they included five full seconds of complete silence after the interview concluded to help listeners recover. Those five seconds of “dead air” — an eternity for audio producers — were an essential means for showing respect to the anguished voices in the show and to give listeners an opportunity to grieve and recover before moving ahead with new ideas. The audience needed that time to process, and any sounds would have shattered the moment.

Silence isn’t only for emotional recovery. As with the flexible, nuanced pacing of everyday conversations, silence in audio recordings serves a variety of purposes. A few that come to mind:

  • Adds suspense
  • Shows discomfort (say, of an interviewee at a pressing question)
  • Provides transition from one thought/segment to the next
  • Emphasizes intensity
  • Encourages others to participate/speak
  • Allows listeners time to process

That last point can be crucial. It’s a gesture of compassion for listeners if the storyteller slows down for a bit. After a particularly intense moment (emotionally or intellectually), a pause allows listeners to finish their thinking about a segment, reach their conclusions, and “gather their thoughts”. Anyone who has helped another person learn something new has seen the importance of a well-timed pause to allow things to “sink in”. As you write/create, remember to allow for those moments in your audience, too. In whatever you’re writing this month, pay a little extra attention to the pacing, the punctuation, or the pauses. What’s not there can at times be even more helpful than what is. Embrace the silence and let it speak for you.

“No word was ever as effective as a rightly timed pause.” — Mark Twain

We hope you will share your work across the various Digital Writing Month spaces that you inhabit. That could be right here at the Digital Writing Month blog; at your own blog or writing space; on Twitter with the #DigiWriMo hashtag; in the DigiWriMo Google Plus Community; at the DigiWriMo Facebook page; or wherever you find yourself writing digitally.

Your Voice: Another Dimension

Wendy Taleo (@wentale): I’ve got a curiosity that keeps me coming back for more. For DigiWriMo I’m ready for anything. I’m looking forward to connecting with the DigiWriMo community. My guest post is focussed on adding your voice to your writing and my other ongoing investigation is around the human aspect of writing and learning online. I’m happy when trying out new tech tools or new ways of doing things. I have a geeky side, poetry side, crafty side, funny bone and human side (*phew*). Apart from Twitter my blogging is split between here and here.

 Coloured bubbles of liquid

flickr photo by Cyberslayer http://flickr.com/photos/cyberslayer/3757514403 shared under a Creative Commons (BY-NC-SA) license

What Am I?


by Wendy Taleo 2015



I am made of British Porcelain

Travelled to Australia circa 1870

I hang out on the top of poles

I am a terrible conductor but with me

Your message goes the distance

Incoming Message




I am

an insulator used in The Overland Telegraph
“one of the greatest engineering feats”

Listen to this post here (7 mins)


Early 18th century: from French télégraphe, from télé- ‘at a distance’ + -graphe ‘written’

The Oxford Dictionary definition of the telegraph (http://www.oxforddictionaries.com/definition/english/telegraph) is applicable as I am writing this at a distance, to go a distance. It must have been amazing in 1872 to finally be able to send a message from Southern Australia to Darwin (3,200km) and across the continents to England in a matter of hours instead of months. As I tap this out on the glass like surface of a tablet the digitally enhanced clicking of the keys reminds me of sending pulses down the wire. Some of the 36,000 overland telegraph poles still stand in the desert lands as a silent monument to the lives of many that built and maintained this form of communication.

While we have dulled our sense of wonderment of such things, it’s still incredible to me that this article could be read all around the world from the time it’s published. Digital writing has gone well beyond only the urgent and important messages and now gives our stories freedom to be shared across the seas.

In hospital with a fractured finger and arm [I pick up the phone to record] I wonder how I can do my blog post for Digital Writing Month. I think about Simon Ensor’s post where he decides to record first and then transcribe as a way of making sense.

In order to really grasp what is going on, I resort to typing out transcripts of my audio captures.” Simon Ensor, 2015.

I find that my thoughts are not joined or developed enough (or maybe that was the pain killers working) but it did allow me to record ideas while eating my hospital lunch. I’m recovering at home now and it’s time to put these ideas together.

There are many ways to add sounds to two dimensional writing and to the online learning experience. In this post I’m concentrating on the most available and low tech tool – our voice. The journal article by Ozubko and MacLeod (2010) suggests a concept called a ‘production effect’. This shows a ‘substantial benefit to memory of having studied information aloud as opposed to silently’. They looked at people’s memory recall of items from a list of words after reading half a list silently and half a list out loud.  By speaking the words rather than just silently reading it the brain can recollect these items better. The produced text can stand out from the crowd of words that we read. By using our own voice to read aloud we can activate the words, make them distinctive and add another dimension to our learning.

What happens when we record our digital writing? Is it important to do so?

One benefit is the concentration required as we are aware of the collection of our voices ‘on record’. We can play it back and perhaps read along with it (that brings back memories of broadcast sing-alongs in school). It’s also available to share and our communication net is widened. More than just an accessibility function the recording of texts can play a critical part in developing writing.

Hearing your own writing brought to ‘life’ adds another dimension. In this recent example, Maha Abdelmoneim chose to record a reading of a blog post. On listening to her recording she said:


The sharing of the recording had impact not only on the author but others that listened. I listened to this before I saw the original post and it stayed with me. Kevin Hodgson commented: kevintweet

When I asked the author, Simon Ensor, whether he would change anything of the original piece after hearing the reading he said:

wendy tweet

Remix is another dimension that we can add to our writing. Visual, audio, video, more writing – it’s another way to examine our thoughts from a different angle.

From the forthcoming book chapter entitled “Academic Writing as Aesthetics Applied: Creative use of Technology to Support Multisensory Learning” (Lian, Kell, & Koo Yew Lie. 2015) this quote struck a chord with me.

The way we write is reflected in the way in which we speak written texts. Writing is not separate from the spoken text, nor are the prosodic structures simply pasted onto the writing in order to create spoken text. (Lian et al. 2015)

The study used a mechanism of examining the recordings of students reading their own academic writings as a way of improving their writing. The report concluded:

Students, therefore, are likely to benefit from tools that tap into their multisensory meaning-making systems and enable them to examine, in more than one way the communicative impact of their own texts. (Lian et al. 2015)

This is what we can strive for by using audio in the online context. Make it multisensory, make it more available to the mysterious process of sensemaking for each individual.


In this work I took words from a video transcript and turned them into sound. See the process for this exercise in this post. Does this add any value to the sense making? While it was fun to do and it may have some artistic application, it would need a decoder for this to assist with any communicative impact of the original message (like the Morse code/decoder process). The following examples are more in line with the ability of sound, in particular the voice, to enhance, create and aid sense making.

Mindful: Mary Oliver

In this collaborative work started by Scott Glass, I wrote a poem and later returned to record a number of segments written by others. I also recorded my own poem and linked it on the Padlet wall. The authors that I recorded felt ‘honoured’ that I had spent the time to do this. In the online world we can suffer that all encompassing malaise of silence from our digital writing. By recording the written word I could add another dimension to this already multifaceted work.

Armchair travel


In this example the recordings came first. The #adhocvoices project as part of the Connected Learning MOOC 2015 (#clmooc) encouraged participants to record their voice or environment as a way to connect with others. There were four recordings that I chose. They were immediate, evocative, environmental and from various corners of the world. I used this sensory input and wrote a poem to tie them all together.


A beach at sunset with the words of the haiku

Perhaps my favourite example of multisensory work is Horizon – A Journey in 5 Parts where I take a haiku poem through a few different iterations and collaborate with others to add sound and visuals.

An Inspiration: Make Writing … Digital

I’ve shared the above works as examples of how to add your voice to your digital writing. A mixed bag of ideas, for sure. What you do depends on what you might like to achieve.

  • Do you want to make a piece of writing more memorable? Read it aloud. Do you want to honour the author in some way? Record and share it.
  • Do you want to improve your academic writing? Read your own text aloud, record it and listen to it.
  • Need some inspiration? Listen to a recording or sound track and then write your story.
  • Have a story but not in a place to write it down? Record it and transcribe later.

Until we figure out how to transcribe touch and smell into 1’s and 0’s we can use our voice to tap into our multisensory system and help the learning process. Use your voice and add another dimension to your learning.

We hope you will share your work across the various Digital Writing Month spaces that you inhabit. That could be right here at the Digital Writing Month blog; at your own blog or writing space; on Twitter with the #DigiWriMo hashtag; in the DigiWriMo Google Plus Community; at the DigiWriMo Facebook page; or wherever you find yourself writing digitally.


Lian, A.B., Kell, P. & Koo Yew Lie. (2015, forthcoming). Challenges in global learning: International contexts and cross-disciplinary perspectives. Cambridge Scholars Publishers, Cambridge, UK.

Markman, A. (2010) Say it loud: I’m creating a distinctive memory.

Ozubko, J. D., & MacLeod, C. M. (2010). The Production Effect in Memory: Evidence That Distinctiveness Underlies the Benefit. Journal Of Experimental Psychology. Learning, Memory & Cognition, 36(6), 1543-1547.

The Overland Telegraph

Resounding Silence

Simon Ensor aka @sensor63 aka Dodger (deceased) is an exiled Francophile Blackpudlian who writes wrongs and other  puzzling stories.

His blog is the largely self-composted Touches of Sense

Dark image with some waves of blue across it

image of Bull Inn Pub Gents WC wall by @Sensor

Resounding Silence

Writing aloud.



“How do you like to write?”

This is a question that I’ve been asking myself recently.

“How do I like to write?”

Well, there was a time when I would only really pick up a pen and a scrap of paper and I used to love feeling my weight, on the nib, on the paper, to such an extent that I almost made holes in it…scribbling on it.

Over the past couple of years I’ve found blogging has come naturally to me, which was quite a surprise.

I have a space in which I am comfortable.

There are times when I just sit down and I know that I want to blog.

I open up the laptop.

Words come to me.

At other times, there are pictures that I have in my mind, or a story.

They come either in a rush or they just emerge…but quite recently, I’ve been trying to find other ways to make my life more of an adventure.

Messing around with sound.

That’s what I’ve been doing.

Messing around with sound.

Sound offers all sorts of new compositional difficulties.



The time I am taking to do this…

The pauses…

The breath…to open up the next sentence…to give you…

All of that is quite unprepared….

There’s no writing going on before.

But, being literate, I’ve no question that this is writing.

This is writing with my voice.

It’s a bit more dangerous…writing like this.

You can hear the hesitation…

You can hear the doubt….

You can the frustration…


“I”ve got nothing to say.”
“It’s not going to be profound.”

Somehow with words and bold and italic it seems…it seems to wipe away…the hesitation.

I can just ditch it.

It’s less painful.

“Open mic.”

No space to hide.

I was using Soundcloud. Then, one day…I was trying to go back to Soundcloud with which I was familiar…went to the same old button on the screen…what did I find?

Impossible to log in!

What a bloody nuisance!!

Well, I really had something to say, it seemed…or else I had nothing better to do apart from to speak to an iPhone!

I ventured into Garageband.

Never been there before.

It all seemed a bit worrying: music, musical instruments…

That wasn’t for me.

And yet, as a compositional space, there are all sorts of interesting possibilities.

“What if I recorded my voice in a large room?”

What would that do to your understanding of it?

What would happen if I took your writing and transformed it with my voice? Now that’s a question, I asked myself.

Over a few weeks now, I’ve been delving into the depths, trying to work out…a path, a plan..

Trying to find my voice, in this new…new…new…new…game?

I like that risk.

I can’t put bold. I can’t choose the font. I can’t change the size of the text.

All that will have to come after.

It’s like the first blog.

It’s like the first poem.

I’m an amateur.

I’m fairly sure this is writing…writing anew…writing aloud

I invite you to join me.

I’ve no idea what’s going to come out of it.

Maybe nothing at all.

Maybe I shall continue alone.

No matter, I’m having fun, here, I’m discovering new vistas.

This is my voice anew.

This is my voice aloud.

An Inspiration: Make Writing … Digital

Try one or more sound activities – adapt – remix – invent – play!

Before starting you can take a look at these posts from Flipboard.

And/or listen to these #adhocvoices recordings on Soundcloud.

Hashtag all your recordings with #digiwrimo

Some ideas

1) Use a sound recorder as a writing tool.

Try to treat it as you might a page.

Don’t stop recording. Play with the silence.

Possible Sound recorders – Audiocopy on IOS/Android/Audacity on PC

Upload sounds to Soundcloud.

2) Try using a sound/music editor like Garageband to compose.

Rather than use silence try using a note, a beat, a noise, a piece of music.

3) Try recording somebody’s blog post and share it with them.

4) Play with existing sounds – make transcripts – make collages – make remixes.

In all cases please share your process and reflections with all at #digiwrimo.

Sounds difficult?
Shout for help!!! :-)
Nobody might offer an answer.

We hope you will share your work across the various Digital Writing Month spaces that you inhabit. That could be right here at the Digital Writing Month blog; at your own blog or writing space; on Twitter with the #DigiWriMo hashtag; in the DigiWriMo Google Plus Community; at the DigiWriMo Facebook page; or wherever you find yourself writing digitally.

Working Out Loud: Listening To What We Write

By Sarah Honeychurch

A close up photo of a Soundcraft Series Five 56 channel mixer at Vineyard Columbus

flickr photo by fensterbme shared under a Creative Commons (BY-NC) license

As we go about our day to day lives, we are surrounded by sound. Often we take this for granted, and although we hear the sounds, we forget to listen to them.  And, likewise, when we publish our digital writings all too often we limit these writings to typed words and digital images – we forget to add the power of sound. When an author speaks her words out loud it adds a whole extra layer of meaning to her message; when a musician puts his words to music he gives them a new interpretation; when we select a melody to accompany our moving images we elevate them to a different level.  We are creatures who talk, who listen, who sing, as well as creatures who think and write – and it is important to remember that during our digital explorations.

What We Have In Store This Week

This week, for Digital Writing Month, we are focussing on the ways in which we can use sounds in order to enhance or translate our written words and digital images.

We hope you keep your ears open. Listen to the way that voices help to tell a story. Think about the ways that sounds and tunes can be used to change the ambience of your words. Which sounds form the backdrop to your everyday life – which ones do you love and which to you dislike?  Which ones are so familiar to you that you barely notice them, and which would you miss if you could never hear them again? As I type this the Jayhawks are playing in the background and I can hear my cats crunching on their evening meal – sounds that mean Saturday evening to me. Which sounds define you and what you do?

Our Guides On This Audio Adventure

Our guest contributors this week, and the source for each post’s Daily Inspiration, include:

  • Ron Leunissen, who explains how his passion for creating digital media was inspired by DS106.
  • Simon Ensor, who talks about messing around with sound.
  • Wendy Taleo, who talks about how sounds can bring two dimensional writing to life.
  • Chris Friend, who reminds us of the importance of the pause and silence when we write.

And you. You are also guest contributors. We invite you to open your mouths and ears this week and get excited by the power of sound.  Get inspired to share your creations with the Digital Writing Month community. Collaborate with others if that’s something you like to do.

International Working Out Loud Week

By a strange coincidence, as we move into thinking about audio during Digital Writing Month, we discovered that November 16th – 23rd is also International Working Out Loud Week (#WolWeek). I’m not exactly sure what this is – I think it’s actually about sharing work with a community at an early stage and getting feedback about it, but what a lovely bit of serendipity it is that we have found out about it.

Dust to Digits: Writing Our Stories Through Family Photographs

By Michelle Pacansky-Brock: Michelle, partners with her team at CSU Channel Islands to explore the impact of connected and humanized online and blended learning environments. Also known as @brocansky and the VoiceThread Goddess, Michelle is also currently working on the second edition of her book, Best Practices for Teaching with Emerging Technologies.

Great Grandmother

Image from by Michelle Pacansky-Brock


Each photograph is read as the private appearance of its referent: the age of Photography corresponds rather precisely to the explosion of the private into the public, or rather into the creation of new social value, which is the publicity of the private: the private is consumed as such, publicly.”  – Roland Barthes, Camera Lucida, p. 98

When I was a little girl, my mother often shared her old family photographs with me. The photographs were stored in a tin trunk under my parents’ bed. Kneeling on the floor, pulling out that trunk, cracking it open, and unleashing the musty scent contained inside became our ritual for initiating our travel through time. My mom, a first-generation born American who was born to two German immigrants, would share stories about her family members.

Photographs were especially important to my mom, as she experienced the tragic loss of her sister and only sibling at the age of 39 and the sudden passing of her mother just two years later. Looking at and sharing stories about the images imprinted on the old torn piece of paper was — and still is — her way of visiting her loved ones. There was a palpable connection between my mom and the time and space of the fading figures portrayed in the images, it was as if the photographs had a magical ability to collapse time for her.

We repeated this tradition numerous times throughout my childhood, often with my two sisters. I also ventured into the tin box on my own sometimes, gazing into the fading eyes of relatives who I had never met. Over time, the photographs became familiar to me; yet, there was one that I secretly treasured more than the others. It was a small, sepia-toned image printed on cardstock (known as a carte de visite). It measured about 2” by 3”. The corners were torn and the surface of the image was heavily scratched. On the back, my mother had written the name of my maternal great grandmother in pen, but aside from that there were no identifying marks on the print.

Despite the ambiguity of the photograph’s context, this image resonated with me. “You are my great grandmother,” I used to think to myself, as if she were there in the room with me. My great grandmother lived in Germany until the age of 99 and passed away when I was quite young. I never met her. I would scour the surface of that image with my eyes, in a desperate quest to know her. I wanted so much to find that “something” that would transport me from the floor of my parents’ bedroom to that moment she stood in front of the camera’s lens.

Through this search, I recall admiring her appearance. I wondered if I’d be fortunate enough to grow into the beautiful woman she was. I would gaze at her dress and imagine what the fabric felt like and what color it was. I resented the scratches that removed the details of her face, as I believed that’s where her essence would be revealed to me. Yet, I never found what I searched for in that photograph.

A photograph’s punctum is that accident which pricks me (but also bruises me, is poignant to me).     -Roland Barthes, Camera Lucida, pp. 26-27.

Postcard 1915

Image from by Michelle Pacansky-Brock

At some point through the years, however, my mother shared more about my great grandmother that transformed how I related to that photograph and, ultimately, how I understood myself. There was an old postcard mixed in with the photos in the trunk that had a message composed in hand-written script on the back, which I could not read — and neither could my mother. She explained that it was a postcard my great grandmother wrote to her husband (my great grandfather) during World War I, sometime after he left for battle. It was postmarked August 16, 1915. My mother also pointed out a phrase, written more rigidly in red ink in the blank space near the postmark stamp. One word was decipherable: “gefallen” with the date August 25, 1915 just below. Gefallen. The German word for “killed in action.”

I imagined my great grandmother writing that postcard by candlelight, after getting her five young daughters settled into bed for the night.  I imagined the care it took to write in such detailed, beautiful German script (known as Sütterlin). I imagined her taking the time to be sure the ink had dried. And I imagined her slipping the postcard into a cloth mailbag, picturing it arriving in her husband’s warm hands.

While I don’t know the details of how the situation actually occurred, I also imagined how she must have felt upon receiving the returned postcard, a love letter transformed into a death notice. I imagine how she went about her life after that moment. How that experience transformed her, made her reach inside and embrace the strength she didn’t know she had. I imagine how that strength was transferred to her five young daughters, now fatherless, in war-torn Germany. “War hero” meant something very different to me from that moment on.

After learning of that story, I never looked at the photograph of my great grandmother the same again. Her body, once a graceful representation of female beauty, conveyed power and pride. The scratches on the surface and the torn corners were less of a nuisance from that point. Instead, I related to them as footprints tracing a long, arduous journey. I wondered where the photograph had been and who had held it. I wondered about photographs that I didn’t have access to and others that were never taken.

But that wasn’t all that changed for me. I also began to relate to myself differently. As I grew up, I felt the strength of my great grandmother inside myself. Knowing her story and imagining what her life experiences were like empowered me to know I too was strong. I wasn’t just a “pretty little girl;” I was her great granddaughter. And my mother was her granddaughter. And my grandmother was one of those little girls tucked in bed as she wrote that postcard. While I have had many empowering experiences in my lifetime, this story opened a new way of understanding where I came from, who I was, and what I could do.  

Personal photographs are like treasures. They document our past and connect us with those who lived before us. However, the stories we associate with a photograph construct the way we relate to it and the way we remember and value the subject(s) rendered upon its surface.

In our digital age, any photograph — no matter how old — can become a liquid photograph, enabling us to share stories with the world through blog posts, like this one. This is an ideal strategy for engaging students in the process of writing, because the process of writing fades away and becomes invisible when our efforts are focused on sharing a story. Last year, I sent my online community college students on a “Photo Quest.” One of the topics from which they chose was titled, “Who am I?” This topic’s task was to excavate a story from their past through a conversation with a family member about an old photograph (an alternative topic was provided for students who did not have access to family photographs and/or family members). One of my students shared this story about a photograph of him and his sister, each clutching a toy. The photograph led to a conversation with his mom, which unearthed a story about his first day of kindergarten in Tijuana, Mexico. Before that Photo Quest, he had no memory of attending kindergarten in Mexico. That event was, as he wrote, “something that was just swept under the rug, not really a secret, but just never mentioned and eventually just forgotten.”

Connecting our formalized curriculum with our students’ real-world experiences is fundamental to ensure learning is relevant. Using old photographs to connect students with the past is not only a great strategy for engaging students, it’s also way to excavate the marginalized stories from the past that will otherwise be forgotten.

An Inspiration: Make Writing … Digital

Search around those old boxes or file cabinets, and dig out some old photographs. What stories simmer beneath the surface of the visual? What stories do they tell? What stories can you tell about the stories they tell? Consider perusing the United States Library of Congress collections of historical photographs, or find out if your own country of origin has its own collection. What do photos say about the country?

We hope you will share your work across the various Digital Writing Month spaces that you inhabit. That could be right here at the Digital Writing Month blog; at your own blog or writing space; on Twitter with the #DigiWriMo hashtag; in the DigiWriMo Google Plus Community; at the DigiWriMo Facebook page; or wherever you find yourself writing digitally.


By Kate Bowles (@KateMFD):

a writer and educator working with students who blog at the University of Wollongong, Australia. She writes online at Music for Deckchairs (musicfordeckchairs.com) and is co-editor of the CASA blog for academic casuals and sessional staff in Australian higher education (actualcasuals.wordpress.com).

Network of Marigolds with a lego man in the middle

Flickr photo: Lego Marigolds by Qwen Wan. Under CC-BY 2.0 license

The fact remains that to write is to trace, and to trace is within the reach of any hand

Fernand Deligny, The Arachnean and Other Texts


Digital writing: is it really different from all the other traces made with hands, that we leave in the material world? At one level it feels as though there’s been a decisive break. The writing that you’re looking at right now consists in the continuous act of digital becoming, reassembling itself as it makes and remakes the network that it travels around. It’s stored, it’s over there, it’s immediately here. There’s no shape to it that conveys directly the grip of a pencil, the strength of a wrist. It could have been spoken. And this isn’t trivial: this digital writing comes to you apparently weightless, placeless and cleaned of time.

We’re so used to this, sometimes we can only see it by looking at what is different. So what do we remember now about the feel of a piece of paper that was held in the hand of the person who wrote it, whose fingers pressed the crease, whose tongue sealed the envelope, delicately and skilfully avoiding a paper cut? What can we explain about how long it took for that envelope to reach us, still sealed up and considerably protected in law against falling into the wrong hands.

When was the last time that you held in your hands a piece of writing that was dear to you because of the hand that touched the paper before you?


I’m walking in company, following a trail up into a small gorge of redwoods. I’m using my hands to balance and feel and push myself along. As I’m walking and looking down, keeping my footing among the uneven rocks, I notice that someone has recently placed—with deliberation—handfuls of marigolds in odd places along the path. They don’t call to us, or demand to be looked at. I sense we’re in the presence of a private ritual, no more than a day old.

In 1967 conceptual artist Richard Long created A Line Made By Walking, by walking. He walked along a straight line in a field repeatedly until he had made a path, then photographed the path. He was 22 years old. For the rest of his career he continued to make versions of this straight line, in other places. Sometimes he made small arrangements of stones. His lines made by walking are deliberate and austere, imposed like the boundaries in Africa and Australia drawn by the colonial straight edge. As he describes it, each walk extends the conversation with time and place that he began with the first line made by walking.

The thing is, though, that real human walking is continuously troubled by the ground we walk on. On the ground we detour, swerve and scramble. We take wrong steps, and back up, and try again. And over time we make paths by following each other’s line of thought: that way is the shorter line between points, that way avoids the tree, and so on. Gradually these paths become visible to everyone, and then they tell us something important about the gait, the weight, and the lean of our bodies. We call these desire paths, and many other names—vernacular paths, goat trails, elephant paths—but it seems to me that they’re a kind of collaborative writing of our common selves onto the surface of the earth.

I was just here. We all were.


Noticing the dried marigolds tucked into cracks in the rocks, I found myself thinking about how we write ourselves into places that we understand as somehow shared, even if we experience them alone. Digital writing doesn’t seem to me to be fundamentally different to this. Sure, there’s writing online that’s theatrical, highly polished, and demanding to be noticed. It’s virtuoso digital writing, taking advantage of all the dazzling things the network can make possible, linking and embedding and calling up. It expects a crowd.

But there’s another kind of digital writing that’s the trace of a small private ritual, a pile of stones left in public for someone who might come along. We write alone online in tiny or substantial ways, just as we write our names on walls and trees and stones and desks and in wet concrete. We write to put ideas to the test, and to make sense of things that are hard to fix on. We write to say that we were just here, thinking this thing.

This isn’t the deliberation of writing letters, or even the deliberation of making conceptual art by walking, but it’s deliberate in its own way. And it isn’t quite the privacy of the paper notebook, the bedside journal. We don’t know who will care about what we have written, but we form the sentences and craft the shape. So who are we writing for? Who do we hope will see these traces of our thoughts?


Arthur Frank writes, following a path trod by Levinas, that what is written has a capacity to lay some kind of moral claim on those who come upon it later. I feel this practice of writing as moral claim has to do with the here-I-am of all the traces we leave in the world.

The moral moment is when the text calls on the reader–on me–just as the patient calls on those who offer care. The here-I-am of the writing is a generous offering of self as witness. The generosity calls for a response of here-I-am from the reader. … The dialogue of author and reader is the beginning of other dialogues; in the multiple sites where medicine is offered and received, where care is given, and where healing occurs.

This then is the real weight of digital writing: the persistent and polyphonic dialogue with digital reading. We hardly notice this, fast movers that we are, but in networks we have created astonishing practices of simultaneity, a new form of writing that exists at all because of its willingness to be continually surprised by what it comes across. We write in the first instance to put our here-I-am into some kind of shape. But it’s in the network that we fill our writing with grace, when we become one another’s strangers, coming upon marigolds and small piles of stones, and taking time to think with care about the hands that placed them there.


Fernand Deligny, The Arachnean and Other Texts, Univocal Publishing, 2015

Arthur Frank, The Renewal of Generosity: Illness, Medicine and How To Live, University of Chicago Press, 2004

Tom Lubbock, Richard Long Walks on the Wild Side (http://www.independent.co.uk/arts-entertainment/art/features/richard-long-walks-on-the-wild-side-1694454.html), The Independent, 2009

(Flickr photo: Lego Marigolds by Qwen Wan. Under CC-BY 2.0 license)

We hope you will share your work across the various Digital Writing Month spaces that you inhabit. That could be right here at the Digital Writing Month blog; at your own blog or writing space; on Twitter with the #DigiWriMo hashtag; in the DigiWriMo Google Plus Community; at the DigiWriMo Facebook page; or wherever you find yourself writing digitally.

Online Texts as Hyperobjects

by Keith Hamon (@kwhamon): teaches college composition and literature at Middle Georgia State University, Macon, GA, USA. He has a doctorate in composition and rhetoric from the University of Miami, though most of his professional life was devoted to managing and integrating technology into college and K12 classrooms and programs. He blogs at Learning Complexity and tweets from @kwhamon.

Shadowy image of people walking up and down lines

flickr photo by kevin dooley http://flickr.com/photos/pagedooley/4144148042 shared under a Creative Commons (BY) license

Information technology is changing not only the way we write, but the way we imagine a text, which can no longer be thought of as a discrete, self-contained object that we can hold, analyze, and describe. Rather, texts such as shared Google Docs, blog posts, and tweets are better imagined as hyperobjects in the sense that Timothy Morton uses the term in his 2013 book Hyperobjects: Philosophy and Ecology after the End of the World. For the past two years, I have been writing various texts with a swarm of scholars around the world. These texts are not what we thought they were, and I have been forced to rethink what a text is. To my mind, this rethinking holds serious implications for those who write and those who teach writing as I do.

Morton lists several characteristics of what he calls hyperobjects, things such as global warming that are so massively distributed across space and time that they reveal features of objects that we usually ignore on the human scale. I suggest that modern information technology is similarly creating massively distributed texts that make obvious some features of traditional print texts that we have ignored. A Shakespearian sonnet or a student paper, for instance, can seem so self contained: easily held in the hands and readable at one place and time. Such a tidy object.

Or so we have told ourselves. Well-written texts are hard, round, and precise. Like bullets.

Or maybe not. The electronic texts that my swarm of scholars has been producing over the past two years reveal a different side of texts. To get a feel for hyperobjects, listen to Jimi Hendrix’s guitar on Voodoo Child (Slight Return), emphasis on the slight return.

Like other hyperobjects, electronic texts are viscous. They are at our fingertips, in our faces, and sticky. We do not put them down or place them back on the shelf. For instance, a swarm of us wrote The Untext, a Google document that refuses to stay on Google Docs; rather, it squirts out into the margins of the document, and then out through Gmail, text messages, blog posts, Twitter, Facebook, Google+, and other channels. Someone in Egypt or France makes an edit, and my smartphone in Georgia, USA, buzzes to let me know. I turn away, and there is The Untext. I cannot put The Untext away, for as Morton notes, there is no away. Rather, the text is massively distributed across all the spaces and times that I inhabit. It is always already there.

Watch your children with their smartphones to understand the stickiness of the texts they are writing with each other. Join a Twitter-fest and let the tweets wash over you. Of course, I’ve been reading The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock in print for forty years, which means that even print texts are spread out, smeared across years, decades, or centuries—massively distributed, viscous. However, I can deceive myself about print texts by returning Prufrock to its place on the shelf. I can’t deceive myself about The Untext. It is always just t/here—at my fingertips, in my face. It’s here in DigiWriMo.

2D representation of a 3D slice of a 4D cube

By Tomruen (Own work) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

Then, electronic texts are nonlocal. Nonlocality is a term Morton borrows from quantum physics to describe the entanglement of quantum particles so that a change in one particle is instantly reflected by a change in the other, regardless of distance—what Einstein called spooky action at a distance. Electronic texts are spooky action at a distance. They are in the cloud, not actually present in any one location, but smeared and smudged across a half dozen Google, Twitter, and Facebook server farms. They occupy all places and time zones simultaneously. They are copresent—here and not here. My students no longer hand in pieces of paper to me; rather, they share their documents with me, or they share access, for they don’t know where their documents are any more than I do.

When my swarm writes on a Google Doc, edits come from elsewhere, nonlocal. My text morphs before my eyes, or behind my eyes. My sense of myself as a writer—once an object like a text—is undermined, decentered, smeared. I become, as Kevin Hodgson says, editable—by forces beyond my ken. Shifts are lateral, from out of left field, obscured. Even as the text zooms into me, at my fingertips, it recedes from me into its inky depths like an octopus. Ink hides as much as it reveals.

Electronic texts go through temporal undulation. Just as a hyperobject stretches across space, it stretches across time, fading away into the uncanny. As we worked on The Untext, I would go to sleep only to awaken to a different document that had emerged in a different spacetime. The Untext writers stretched across half the world and a dozen time zones. The text created its own time, speeding up or slowing down, quite apart from what any one writer did, or didn’t do. Writers faded for a time, returned, phasing in and out, so that at times the document seemed to crawl, at times race, under its own speed.

Indeed, electronic texts are phased, a fourth characteristic of hyperobjects. All texts are distributed across multiple scales, but because electronic texts are seldom reduced to a single printed, handy object, we cannot ignore their multi-dimensionality. The Untext is, in fact, a stream of electrons, at the same time it is a Google Doc, at the same time it is distributed across world-wide networks (the absolute grammar of TCP/IP is important to electronic texts), and it functions through and across all these scales: micro, meso, macro. Thus, The Untext appears to come and go, to phase in and out like the Jimi Hendrix solo. I can never see it all at once, as I imagine I can with a printed text. Rather, it zooms in or out, left or right. At times it is clear, other times distorted. It disorients me, and I must work harder as a writer or reader to interact with it. Anyone who reads The Untext can attest to this disorientation even at the meso-Google Doc scale. I am certain that I am never interacting with all of The Untext. The stream of electrons recede from me, though I am confident that they are somehow important to the text.

Finally, electronic texts are interobjective, a term Morton uses to describe how objects emerge as a system of interrelated objects within a system of interrelated objects, systems within systems. The Untext, then, is not one text, a single thing, in Google Docs; rather, it is an “emergent propert[y] of relationships between enmeshed objects” (Hyperobjects, Kindle Location 1492). The Untext is an emergent property of relationships among electrons, electronic networks, phonemes, morphemes, graphemes, words, sentences, paragraphs, and memes in English, TCP/IP, HTTP, Google, Apple, Microsoft, Keith, Kevin, Maha, Sarah, Simon, and countless more. I can touch the text here and there, collapsing its wave function, so that it appears for a time to be a single thing, a particle, but as soon as I look away it morphs back into a wave and field, smeared into always already there. There is always already more to the text than I see at any given place and time, though what I see indeed acts like a text.

So what does this say about writing and teaching writing? I really don’t know, though I suspect it should change the way we treat a text from our students. We can still collapse a student paper to the few sheets of paper they hand us, put a grade on it, and hand it back. Such behavior still works in a small way in some classrooms, but it does not work so well with electronic texts. That way of thinking about the writing process and about the reader, writer, and text has never been totally accurate, but it did have utility—now it isn’t even a useful fiction. We’ve work to do.

We hope you will share your work across the various Digital Writing Month spaces that you inhabit. That could be right here at the Digital Writing Month blog; at your own blog or writing space; on Twitter with the #DigiWriMo hashtag; in the DigiWriMo Google Plus Community; at the DigiWriMo Facebook page; or wherever you find yourself writing digitally.

The Dilemma of Digital Writing

By Rusul AlRubail (@RusulAlRubail): a writer on education, teaching and learning. Her work focuses on teacher development and training, English language learners, and pedagogical practices in and out of the classroom.

Pine marten peeking out of a log

flickr photo by Property#1 http://flickr.com/photos/manager_2000/3127117533 shared under a Creative Commons (BY-NC-ND) license

I didn’t become a digital writer until last year. Then I realized that there is more to digital writing than revise, edit and polish. Digital writing is also about digital presence.

I figured this out only after I created my own digital presence on several social media platforms. Before that, my presence as an educator, and as a writer existed through third party mentions of my name and my title: RateMyProf, a college quarterly I helped to edit, and a few other journals to which I contributed to as an editor. But those links lead you nowhere. Other than my name and title, nobody could tell who I was, what my interests were, or even how I look like.

Then I became connected, and my digital presence started to exist.

Does this mean that as a writer I didn’t exist at all because my digital presence did not exist either?

Most of us who live on the digital realm as writers and educators experience two realities. Many might question that their actions, behaviours and interactions online are even considered a “reality”. But I think there’s more to it than us being “online” and “connected”.

People, writers, and educators are connecting everyday to digital realities that are outside their own physical reality. These digital realities come in all forms, shapes and sizes. They are digital hubs, communities, and professional and personal learning networks. They also take the shape of forums, comments, responses, highlights, live conferences, favourites and retweets. They even take form through your bio and profile shot.

Digital Dualism, a term coined by Nathan Jurgenson, speaks about our two separate realities: our digital world and our physical or IRL world. Jurgenson makes an argument that both of these realities are in fact conjoined, and are not separate from one another. So how does writing digitally impact writing?

Writing Platform

Digital writers have to consider the platform they use to display their writing. There are many platforms as well as text editors that quickly become writers’ favourite tools to use when writing. Many digital writers start to feel so connected and acquainted with the digital writing tools they use, they start to have a preference. With platforms like WordPress, Blogger, Medium, and text editors such as Sublime and Ulysses app, digital writing is now about the experience itself. Where do I write? Is it an easy to use platform? What do I like about it? All these questions come to mind for digital writers that are trying to create writing.

Social Media Sharing

When a post is finally published, after a few edits, including images, and citing, digital writers share their work on social media and their local networks. The act of sharing adds an extra layer to digital writing. We share so that our writing is read by others. We also share to start conversations, connect with like-minded people, and get recognition for thoughts & ideas. Most people do not like to admit the last point, for many reasons, but in reality, it holds a lot of truth. A major aspect of digital writing is digital audience. Who is reading my writing? What would they think? should I change something to fit their mindset? Many of these questions might be pondered when writing, but I learned to not worry about what others think when it comes to what I write about. This doesn’t come easy, especially for beginner digital writers, but eventually it’s something to overcome.

Community & Engagement

Another great aspect of digital writing that directly impacts the writer is the community and the engagement that results from writing. As mentioned above, digital presence often accompanies digital writing. When a writer joins a digital community, or professional learning network, they’ll be inclined to share the discussions that occur with the community. These discussions often happen on Twitter and Facebook in the form of posts, conversations, tweeting, retweeting etc. Many writers like to reflect on these discussions by writing their own thoughts.

Digital writing merges traditional forms of writing with the digital world. “Digital” does not refer to the tool. “Digital” refers to our presence on these tools and platforms, how we exist, behave and interact with others using the same space we are.

If you have any questions about digital writing, digital writing tools/platforms, please don’t hesitate to connect with me and ask (@RusulAlRubail)

We hope you will share your work across the various Digital Writing Month spaces that you inhabit. That could be right here at the Digital Writing Month blog; at your own blog or writing space; on Twitter with the #DigiWriMo hashtag; in the DigiWriMo Google Plus Community; at the DigiWriMo Facebook page; or wherever you find yourself writing digitally.


Digital Inclusion: It’s Not All or Nothing

by Yin Wah Kreher (@yinbk): I’ve lived in 2 continents and travelled to 4. I am a thinkaholic who likes to use multiple languages and modalities to communicate with others. Books, music and art are the best inventions of humankind. Helping someone to read and write is one of the kindest things you can do for someone. Tweet me at @yinbk. I blog at http://yinwahkreher.com (Yin’s #AltCV)

A night photo of Brussels and Antwerp. Two areass of bright light in a night sky

flickr photo by NASA’s Marshall Space Flight Center http://flickr.com/photos/nasamarshall/13951501927 shared under a Creative Commons (BY-NC) license

Do we have to talk about accessibility? (Again?)

(Since we are talking about digital creations, I’d much rather use the less frequently hyped phrase “Digital Inclusion.”)

From prior experience, workshops on accessible design of online courses don’t go down very well with busy digital content creators. (Sure, it could be me and not the topic!) Accessibility engenders mixed and extreme emotions.

Image of three professors arguing

Text Equivalent (Opens up a Google Document)

To be honest, the first time around I was intimidated by these responses. I wanted to be the cool kid in high school. Not the unpopular accessibility police officer. But what is the point of learning if I don’t share it? It being knowledge that will impact the lives of some 1 billion people in the world (the world’s largest minority)?

Writing a blog post on accessible design of digital media doesn’t make me a better person than you, the reader, on this topic. I prefer to see everyone as being in a potential zone of change. Some may be teetering on the edge of transformative learning whilst others are making strides to improve the accessibility of digital content creation. It is worth emphasizing that accessibility has to begin with us, the digital content creators. Ideally, we cannot and should not wait for web developers or the Office of Disability to fix any problems that arise from the digital content we create.

Accessibility is not an US versus THEM matter. “WE” co-create content together on the open web with all kinds of people; we build on and enlarge our learning experiences together. We can innovate by consulting with accessibility specialists and listening to each other’s views. If we are unsure as to why or how to make any digital content usable by everyone, I suggest we consider a few things as we participate in #DigiWriMo this month:

1. Rethink how we view accessibility.

Disability is a porous state; anyone can enter or leave at any time. Live long enough and you will almost certainly enter it. – Cecilia Capuzzi Simon

We frequently associate accessibility with disabled people, the “other” ones and forget how disability can happen to anyone of us, anytime. Indeed, consider the porosity of this concept and how ability is, maybe, a social construction?

Accessibility is also about inclusion that enriches all of us. I like how Steven Taylor put it when he talked about making accommodations beyond compliance in the context of higher education:

My starting point on the issue of accommodations for students with disabilities is the
philosophy that we do this not for the students with disabilities, not for compliance, and not for diversity for the sake of diversity, but because universities are enriched by the experiences of students with disabilities.

We are ALL richer for the effort we put in to make informative content findable, available, usable, shareable, efficient and collaborative as much as possible on the open web. Doing so, we invite everyone to participate in our conversations and connect with us for deeper learning. Accessibility, someone said, is about the heart, not the law. Lennard Davis reminds us that the Americans with Disabilities Act has opened some doors but discrimination against people with disabilities still exist: economic discrimination, marriage inequality, and “discrimination in more powerful but hard to regulate ways – the job interview, dating websites, social engagements, and the like.”

2. We can learn how to create accessible digital content.

Learning how to make digital content begins with what I would call an awakening to the needs of others around us. This thoughtfulness benefits not just the person with a disability, but also content creators, who then have opportunities to pause and be reflective in their design; to go about acquiring new knowledge and skills on how to include others in their digital craft-making. The web is not short of resources on how to create accessible digital content. I will list a few helpful sites that describe how we can get there, by listening, and by working at our own pace:

The template of guidelines is embedded in the article and can also be found as a viewable article on my Google drive. Benetech, a nonprofit organization with a focus on developing technology for social good, also has a webpage that describes the accessible e-book publishing criteria.

I will highlight a few of the 9 tips pertaining to Twitter that DigitalGov has published because I find that I have a lot to learn to make my tweets more shareable with people on the web. A number of #DigiWriMo participants are also connecting via Twitter. Moreover, I will be creating a #DigiWriMo Make prompt with these tips!

A. If you are posting an image, video or audio file, use these words, e.g. [PIC], [VIDEO], [AUDIO] to indicate that you are linking to any of these file formats. This prepares people using screen readers to know what to expect before clicking on the link. Uppercase letters are recommended to improve clarity for those with visual challenges.
B. Compose your tweet in such a way that it acts as a descriptive caption and provides context for the picture/video/audio file. Then link back to a webpage that hosts a tagged photo [image with alttext], video or audio with full caption.

I have an example of this on my #VCUTHINK course. I have a mind map which I posted as an image, which will be unreadable to screen readers. Thus, I created another representation of the digital content. I created a text equivalent using a Google document which I posted, shared and linked to the course page. I didn’t post a tweet about this though. I have a lot of learning to do!
C. Use Camel Case for the first letters of compound words used in Twitter hashtags. For example, #DigiWriMo instead of #digiwrimo. [Yikes, slap me for my earlier ignorance with my tweets. #ICanBeWrong]
D. Try to link to accessible digital content (a tagged photo; audio or video with transcript). If that is not possible, or you are unsure, include a brief description of these limitations in your tweet(s). [This is a new one for me to learn!]

3. Inclusive design is not all or nothing.

Ronald Mace first introduced the concept of universal design (UD) as “the design of products and environments to be usable by all people, to the greatest extent possible, without the need for adaptation or specialized design” (1988). My interpretation of UD is that it is about degrees of possibility.

Inclusive design, a related term used more broadly in the UK, incorporates the idea of reasonable-ness.

“The design of mainstream products and/or services that are accessible to, and usable by, as many people as reasonably possible on a global basis, in a wide variety of situations and to the greatest extent possible without the need for special adaptation or specialised design”.

Once our senses are awakened to the needs (not wants) of people around us, can our brains lose that empathic understanding? Some research has shown that even toddlers can be primed for empathy. Apparently, empathy can be nurtured throughout life. Yet, the busyness and distractions of life can hinder our desire to be attentive — not unempathic — to inclusion as we create digital content. I want to encourage you to keep on with this practice of digital inclusion and stop beating yourself down that you can’t find the time to do it. We can learn how to create digitally inclusive design, and we can start at some point to make digital inclusion as reasonably possible as we can. Develop an ambitious imagination. But more so, remember, it’s about the heart. Where the heart is, we will find the means and resources.

An Activity: Make Writing Digital
#DigiWriMo Make:

  • If digital inclusion or accessibility were a song, movie, image, book or a short poem, what would it look/sound like to you? Make a short note, tune, video clip or hum a tune using any online app, e.g. Notegraphy, Vocaroo, PicMonkey, etc.
  • Before you share your image/audio/video file on Twitter, create a text equivalent of this note on a web document. (Apply Tip B)
  • Share your digital content on Twitter using the #DigiWriMo hashtag and the #A11y (short for accessibility) hashtag. Remember Camel Case? This way, we show our support to the community or network that’s working towards creating accessible web content. (Apply Tips B and C and/or D)

We hope you will share your work across the various Digital Writing Month spaces that you inhabit. That could be right here at the Digital Writing Month blog; at your own blog or writing space; on Twitter with the #DigiWriMo hashtag; in the DigiWriMo Google Plus Community; at the DigiWriMo Facebook page; or wherever you find yourself writing digitally.


Author, Audience and Parts of Speech

by Sherri Spelic (@edifiedlistener) Educator, Coach and Facilitator at home on the edge of the Alps in Vienna, Austria. I blog at https://edifiedlistener.wordpress.com/ and teach elementary physical education at a PK-12 international school by day. (Sherri’s #AltCV)

flickr photo Captive Audience shared by Singing With Light under a Creative Commons ( BY-NC-ND ) license

For much of October I have been mentally wringing my hands over exactly how I want to contribute to Digital Writing Month, especially as a featured contributor. I gladly accepted the invitation to be a part and was flattered to be included among a fascinating cross section of participating contributors. And I kept asking myself – what do I have to share? What’s my angle? What’s important to me? What matters? And going a level deeper – what’s at stake?

Let me start here. I write regularly in public online spaces. I blog, I tweet, I comment. In fact, if I google my name, I get 4 pages worth of results which refer almost exclusively to one of those acts. So foremost in the digital warehouse of frequently accessed data points related to my name, writing pops up as if it were all that I do. So if Google’s main clues suggest “Sherri Spelic writes,” then that must make it so, right? Hmmm…

I realized only very recently that I want to talk about audience here. Because when I write, even when I say I don’t think much about who is going to read whatever I put out there, of course that’s a lie. I often consider for whom my words are intended. I care about reaching certain individuals and groups with my message. This thinking shapes, too, where I choose to publish – on my own blog or on a public platform like Medium.

Digital writing – in my understanding, the act of creating texts or other products through digital tools which are designed to be shared with readers via digital means- diverges significantly from the private hand-written journaling I did for years. From my laptop and occasionally from my tablet I draft texts which I primarily publish immediately. And when I say publish it means that I post it on my blog which triggers a least two separate tweets and sends out about 100 e-mails to subscribers of my blog. If I choose to publish on Medium I can either submit it for review to the editors of a specific publication (like Synapse) or I can post it independently. In both cases, these texts are out there for anyone and everyone with reasonably free internet access to see, read, and also ignore.

But here’s the thing: that “out there” business can be misleading. Just because anyone could find my beautifully crafted reflection on ‘the joy of whatever’ does not mean that many, or necessarily anyone will. We kind of assume that because the user base of the internet is so vast, diverse and active, that we who brave the waters of such relentlessly fast-paced media will be showered with attention from all angles, positive and negative. When we write our provocatively snarky think-piece on ‘the rise and fall of you-know-what-I’m-talking-about’, we can be so convinced that the masses will jump up, click and re-click their immediate approval and even the trolls will come marching into our comment stream to illustrate the vital nerve that we have touched. That, however, is so rarely how this digital writing thing actually unfolds, at least in my corner of the internet.

Here’s where I think we can fall into a trap. We want audience. We want readers. We’d like to win over subscribers. We want to feel useful and appreciated and worthy and maybe even important. And audience seems like a way to get there. How many subscribers to your blog before you can call your writing endeavor a success? What’s the critical mass of Twitter followers required to be considered a “thought leader”? How do you get to be listed as a LinkedIn Influencer when you post an article?

Because in digital media we like to let numbers and metrics tell the story – the story of reach, of clicks, of views, visits and referrals. These metrics are then readily folded into narratives about popularity, trends, importance, because in the economy of attention, these things matter. These metrics tell us many things but they fail to tell us as writers and as people enough of what we really need to know: Whom did I reach? What was it that resonated? Where was I misconstrued? Then, going a little deeper: What is in this piece for me? What lessons do I want to keep for myself? What would I do well to let go of right now?

The information that we most often crave about audience reaches us typically through other avenues, if at all: through comments, tweets and retweets, shares across different platforms. And so much of all that will remain unknown. And in digital writing as in other forms expression we need to be okay with that.

So how do we find audience, after all?

If we want audience, then we must first and foremost be audience. We need to read widely and astutely. We need to pause as we read the work of others – and become permeable. Being an audience means letting others into our worlds, leaving space for the sparring and dancing of  ideas. Being an audience means listening – dropping defenses, setting aside our emotional reactivity for a moment. When we do these things, we become an audience of value and increase the likelihood of helpful and constructive interaction. We acknowledge a response within and perhaps also ‘out there’, privately or publicly.  

For me, this slow and steady acculturation of being audience while growing audience has afforded me the opportunity to mature into this writing practice at my own pace. In fact when I examine the bulk of my digital work, I quite simply would characterize it as “writing back.” So much of what I write emerges as necessary and somehow urgent responses – to something I read, saw, experienced, heard. I write back to authors. I write back to my students. I write back to my professional/personal learning network (PLN). I also write back to myself.

When I’m not writing I do many other things: I teach, I coach, I parent, I facilitate, I move, I read, I lead, I follow. And by now these aspects flow freely into my writing. The immediacy of the digital – the risk and opportunity of exposure coupled with the potential speed of engagement and response -for me, this underscores the imperative of being the audience I want to have. Remaining focused on the distinctly human dimensions of our lightning fast communication channels stands at the core of what, why and how I choose to create.

It may seem that we are all born under the sign of algorithms’ ascendency and that the astrology of our common future may be reduced to a handful of branded provider platforms.  Yet it is and will continue to be our choice to uphold and broaden the reach, impact and benefit of the irreplaceably human in each of us whether we are reading, writing, listening, speaking. We need to think about our offer as both/and instead of either/or. Writer and listener. Reader and speaker. Being the audience that makes positive waves requires more from us as writers, educators, activists and contributors and also serves to regularly remind us of what we are in fact here for.

What matters to me in contributing to this year’s digital writing month? Supporting audience in all its forms and iterations; making audience a 30-day verb.

Your Story, Your Terms: Unofficial CV activity

We are used to measuring what we can count in terms of learning, but how do we celebrate the things that matter?

Flickr photo Experimentation by Taro Taylor under CC-BY 2.0

Flickr photo Experimentation by Taro Taylor under CC-BY 2.0 license

We are often asked to tell our stories according to someone else’s standards of what counts, but we are not necessarily asked about what matters to us, what we value, even if it can’t be measured. We are even usually asked to express ourselves in some semi-standardized format, like a Curriculum Vitae (CV) or résumé.

What if we could write a CV that was based not on degrees and position and peer-reviewed publications, but on what we think is most important about who we are and what we are genuinely most proud to have accomplished? We know it’s not the first time some of you see an activity of introducing yourself differently – so this might be easier for some than others, but we hope all of you will enjoy doing this.

Here are some examples of things we would include and formats we used to represent ourselves – looking forward to yours!

We are inspired by the thinking of many people who emphasize “all the stuff that matters but does not count”. Lee Skallerup Bessette writes about how service and social media activity and activism are underrated or ignored in academia. Dave Cormier held a week about counting in #rhizo15. Rebecca Hogue challenged the traditional bio. The #clmooc team encouraged participants to do untroductions.

So let’s think of less formal and more formative markers of achievement and personal growth.

Some suggestions:

  • Making a (long term?) friend through a MOOC/ peer review process
  • Being noticed/recognized by somebody REALLY IMPORTANT or someone you deeply respected
  • Doing or writing something that inspires others to remix it (see Tania Sheko’s radio play)
  • Finding an unrelated shared interest (knitting, ukulele)

Some things are slightly more countable, but not usually counted for grades/promotion/tenure (see Bonnie Stewart’s research on influence via Twitter and her post about everybody being a social media guru)

Here are some unofficial CVs:

Tweet yours out to #digiwrimo and #altcv or post it on your blog (or Soundcloud for audio, Youtube for video – wherever you like).  We’ll work on aggregating these here. Don’t have a blog? Create an open Google Doc and share it with us in the comments here or via Twitter.

Editor’s edit: we started curating your #AltCV contributions here – add yours!

(Photo: Experimentation by Taro Taylor licensed under CC-BY 2.0)

Make Some Noise: Voicing Our Written Words


Writers should talk more. We write to make ourselves heard. We use writing to tell a story, contribute to conversations, add our voices to a chorus, raise the alarm against injustice, call for help. Readers, then, look for a strong voice from authors or get emotional over a text that speaks to them. In each of these cases, text evokes a sound. Indeed, the very word audience originates from the Latin word meaning “to hear”, same as audio. Writing allows us, in a fashion, to hear words and language. As we read, we recreate what the words might sound like, rather than exactly how they sounded to the writer. Reading transforms print into sound, even if it’s all internal.

This is a call for authors to make more noise with their writing. I mean that literally: Use vocal sounds to convey words, not just text. Let readers become listeners. Tell your story to their ears—spoken word demands a synchrony of attention that written words cannot duplicate. When confronted with written text, we can skip, skim, scan, and speed-read. With audible speech, we can skip to a different spot in a recording, but we lose all the content we skipped; there’s no way to get an overview of spoken text. While at first this may seem a limitation, I believe the opposite: Spoken text offers an opportunity for a richer involvement with the text than the printed word can. Jonathan Sircy will discuss this idea in the context of teachers reviewing student papers in an upcoming article on Hybrid Pedagogy. In it, he will explain how listening to student work creates a more genuine appreciation of student texts.

Writing teachers, especially those in K-12 schools, often work to help their students develop a voice in their writing. (I would argue that academic writing is often specifically intended to eliminate that voice, but that’s an issue for another time.) Writers who express their voice use words distinctly and purposefully, crafting a unique style recognizable as their own. But why do we limit ourselves like this? Our perception of writing should expand to include the spoken, not just the written, word. We deserve to hear one another’s meaning.

The sound of language helps readers. I’ve been an avid fan of audiobooks for decades; my blind grandfather got me hooked on them, often bragging that he could read a book while doing the dishes while those who used their eyes to read couldn’t pull off the same trick. Audiobooks take the written word back to the oral tradition of storytelling, allowing the narrator to infuse the text with expressiveness and emotion that, for all the wonder of written language, is nonetheless challenging to capture in print. Think how much texture and richness are added to poetry when it’s read aloud. The sound of words endows language with beauty and meaning. Those of us who read books with our ears hold a dual-layer appreciation for the text, and it baffles me when people claim—as I often hear—that listening to an audiobook isn’t “real” reading. Listening to text is more real than reading it.

I’m also a huge fan of podcasts, listening to them in my car any time I don’t have an audiobook queued up. Unlike traditional radio programs, which require an audience to listen at the same time as the program is broadcast, podcasts allow the audience to listen to a program on their own schedule, with a caveat: The program still takes the same amount of time to listen to regardless of when it is played back. Timing is integral to audio programs; good programs captivate audiences with well-timed narrative and keep listeners involved in the audible world they present.

Speaking of timing, silence is underrated. When we tell stories to our friends, we pause at certain points and rush at others, to help deliver the story the way we intend. Audible storytellers need to keep in mind that their audiences might need a moment for something to sink in. Silence is also a foreign concept for people who work in text. While paragraph breaks or visual dividers do a little to affect the speed at which readers experience writing, there is no way with the written word to force readers to stop and ponder an idea. Audio, though, needs to account for necessary time to think. Audio storytellers need to embrace silence on occasion so that listeners can digest.

Audible texts create an intimacy that doesn’t exist in print. This document is a call for more of that intimacy. The spoken word works because the speaker makes vibrations in the air, which then tickle follicles of hair in the listener’s ear. Even if that sound is recorded by microphone, translated to 1s and 0s, saved as an audio file, transmitted over the internet, and played back through a set of headphones, whoever first spoke the words in that recording ultimately affected the listener in a physical way: Spoken words move people. As Anne Fernald put it in an episode of Radiolab, “sound is…touch at a distance.” I challenge you to do more to touch your audience more intentionally. Let’s get intimate with our words.

Take out your microphones, raise your voice, and make some noise.

[Photo, “Abstracted”, by Fio licensed under CC BY-NC 2.0.]

Writing to Connect: Knowing the “Other” Outside Time & Space

Maha Bali is Associate Professor of Practice, Center for Learning and Teaching, American University in Cairo. She writes at blog.mahabali.me and is one of the facilitators of edcontexts.org.

7757863298_88953dd7fb_zWriting to Connect: Knowing the “Other” Outside Time & Space

by Maha Bali

I write and blog like crazy now, and people might be surprised to know that as of November 2014, which is #digiwrimo, I will have been blogging for only 10 months. I am amazed to be asked to guest-write a post for this event, given that I did not start seeing myself as a “writer” until around July 2013 when I was nearing the submission of my PhD dissertation and gaining confidence in myself as an academic. I started writing for magazines first, then realized I sometimes wanted to write my thoughts about something that felt a.) urgent and b.) not necessarily relevant to any particular magazine’s focus. So I first started blogging for myself, blogging to think, to give myself space to think aloud without imposing on others by flooding them with emails. But then I started using my blog for MOOCs, and soon, blogging became a way to connect with others. Here are some ways I write with and for others:

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Digital Writing Prompt: Revealing the Play, not the Polish

Typewriter hammersFor this challenge, we’re getting vulnerable.

When working in the familiar medium of text, many of us are used to having our not-quite-finished work reviewed by others to help the process of editing and revision. While it can be intimidating or revealing to hand over imperfect material to someone else, we do it with the expectation of improvement.

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The #prompt Prompt

Day 241 - Into the sunset

Over the last few years, DigiWriMo has thrown lots of crazy digital writing prompts at the web, like this one or this one or this one. We’ve co-authored a novel in a day, a multimedia novel in two days, and we even unleashed a few hundred zombies. Sometimes the rules of a prompt have been followed. And sometimes breaking the rules became the most imaginative and the most delightful response to the prompt.

Now, it’s your turn to wreak your own brand of havoc upon the Web.

The Challenge:

  1. Compose a prompt, your own digital challenge that you’ll set loose.
  2. Your prompt can be any length. You can write a blog post that sets the stage. Or you can craft a prompt that fits into a single meticulously-composed tweet.
  3. Consider making your prompt multimedia — a picture, a sound file, a video, a computer game. The more compelling the prompt, the more likely you are to lure unsuspecting participants and the better their results will be.
  4. Whatever its shape, wherever it lives, make your prompt beautiful. Assignments/activities/prompts have their own artistry.
  5. Don’t get too caught up in predetermining outcomes. Sometimes the best result is something you couldn’t have anticipated.
  6. Keep the instructions as simple as possible. Inspire, incite, encourage, and maybe even constrain (which can encourage improvisation). But don’t overwhelm or too narrowly control.

Once you’ve written, composed, drawn, filmed, or recorded your prompt, send it out into the world. Share it on Twitter with the hashtags #digiwrimo #prompt. Post it to the Digital Writing Month Facebook page. Link to it in the comments below. Send it to your friends and family by e-mail. However you can best drum up some excitement about it. Don’t be afraid to wave your digital arms around a bit. Sometimes people skip readily onto a playground, and sometimes you have to do some jumping up and down to get them there. And if and when folks start to do your prompt, show off the results by retweeting, linking, sharing, liking, favoriting, +1ing, etc.

And, now, the most important part: Rise to the challenge of someone else’s prompt. Check Facebook (posts to the page are on the bottom left), search #digiwrimo #prompt on Twitter, look in the comments below. Skip merrily onto the playground someone else has built.

Lastly, share this post and the prompts you find especially imaginative to get more folks involved. While this is officially our weekend challenge, we encourage you to repeat this activity throughout the rest of the month.

[Photo, “Into the Sunset“, by Brian J. Matis licensed under CC BY-NC-SA 2.0.]

When We Are Writers

Tiny mouseThere’s a thing I want to say. I heard it coming up when I was sitting in Starbucks yesterday. Watching the sun and the people in the sun and thinking this was as good a place as any for a writer and a teacher to be composing his thoughts. And I was imagining composed thoughts — organized and clear and inspiringly meaningful. And instead I was watching a father and his young son have an argument. The four-year-old boy wanted to climb the back of the booth he was sitting on, and then he wanted to lay down on the seat. And the father wanted him to stop. Whichever he chose, just stop and be motionless. The only solution for the father was for his son to sit still, to sit down in the chair and behave as — well, as he himself was. In all his age and sediment. The argument grew to a boil, with the son never quite getting the sitting in the seat right and the father getting more upset each time. Finally at one point he reached over to grab his son’s knee, force him upright, and threatened to take away his cookie. Which he did. Which he did because the boy didn’t obey. The boy couldn’t find it in his small legs and busy hands to sit still. And away went the cookie. And on came the tears.

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Maggie’s Digital Content Farm

Audrey Watters is an education writer (at Hack Education and elsewhere), recovering academic, serial dropout, and part-time badass.

Porcelain figurineMaggie’s Digital Content Farm

by Audrey Watters

Over the course of the last 6 months or so, I’ve felt a real shift in what it means (for me) to write – to work, to be – online. And let’s be clear: this affects me offline too.

I’m hardly the first or the only person to notice that the great promises of the Web – freedom! knowledge! access! egalitarianism! creativity! revolution! – are more than a little empty. I’m hardly the first or the only person to notice that the online communities in which we participate increasingly feel less friendly, less welcoming, more superficial, more controlling, more restrictive.

Online, we seem to be more and more short-tempered and sharp-tongued. It feels less and less sustainable. It’s taking a toll on me, personally – the status updates, the sneers, the threats, the responsibilities, the accolades, the comments, the deadlines. All of it.

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Digital Writing Prompt: Transcending Media

Typewriter keysWhen we tell stories to one another in a physical, non-digital space, we do so across multiple media. We use visual hand gestures to emphasize key points of a verbal narrative. The words we choose matter of course, and we sometimes create illustrations to help. (Many of us resort/default to drawing pictures when giving directions.) Emotional stories might lead us to break into song, or funny stories are resolved with the music of the audience’s laughter. We often transcend media in non-digital spaces, yet we rarely think about it.

Not so with digital writing. When authors sit down to create a blog post, they usually stick with the written word; photos provide occasional support when needed. When video of speakers is dramatically close-cropped, that person’s hand gestures may be lost. And how easily can audio be added to a good photograph? Flickr and many other photo-sharing services provide no means of attaching a song to an image; creating an audio track for a slideshow can be tedious.

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