The Casting and The Killing (also known as #cpd23 Thing 18: Jing and podcasts)

This post may include references to The Killing/Forbrydelsen. But there are no spoilers. Promise.

I've been putting off tackling Thing 18. Partly it's a priorities thing--my attentions have been focused elsewhere. The more generous among you might presume it's the dreaded d-word that's been my main distraction. Thanks for that. Actually it's been The Killing II. I'm struggling to shake off the belief that possession of several excellent jumpers will be better for my career than my ability to use Jing (it is, after all, really flipping cold in our Old Library). But also I have to admit that I'm not entirely convinced about the value of screencasting, and podcasting, or any other kind of casting (except Sofie Gråbøl et al., of course) for my professional development.

Here's the issue. With stuff like screencasting and podcasting there's a huge gulf between the experience of the producer and consumer. They're totally separate. But they have something in common: if their participation is to be really worthwhile, the end-product has to be of a really high quality. Professional quality, even. Worthy of BBC4 quality, even. We're talking Faroese jumper quality. And from the perspective of the producer, he or she has to be really convinced of the purpose of the screencast or podcast not only because he or she is about to exert a whole world of effort, but also because the tools used to produce them aren't particularly flexible or adaptable. They're not applicable in loads of different circumstances unlike, for example, Prezi.

Knit your own jumper? Instructions here.

The consumer, meanwhile, is relatively passive in this whole process. He or she is sitting and watching, or sitting and listening, ramping up the need for the content and presentation to be really hot and relevant. And neither type of casting is interactive, amplifying this even more. Let's think again about The Killing II: the fact that, despite my conviction to the contrary, my conversational Danish is actually as non-existent as the Christmas presents I've bought so far, means I've got to sit and read the subtitles on the screen. A second's distraction and I've missed Lund's latest execution of poor, yet exceedingly well-knitted, judgment. It makes me passive. And the same can be applied to podcasts and screencasts. Consumers, like producers, also have to be really convinced of the purpose and value of the screencast or podcast. Otherwise that little cross in the right hand corner of the screen will be clicked quicker than you can say "Nanna Birk Larsen".

The truth is that neither of these tools are for me. I'm sending them to Gedser. But there's something approaching professional development in knowing this, and just being aware that screencasting and podcasting have actually been invented. And the ability to learn, or to know, that there are doors you don't want to push against is pretty valuable. Now there's a lesson that Sarah Lund could learn.

Prezis of the Caribbean (also known as #cpd23 Thing 17: Prezi)

Just a quick one this week, proving that miracles really do happen. And I'm going to focus on Prezi because, first, I wrote about Slideshare last year, and because, second, Prezi is So Much More Fun. You know I'm right. Slideshare is like the clearly printed, legible and comprehensible fire safety warning to Prezi's irresponsible teenager playing with matches: there's a much smaller chance of fireworks, and a much smaller chance of total catastrophe. And I love Prezi. In fact, I do believe that it is a truth universally acknowledged that it is little coincidence that the words "Prezi" and "precious" share the same first three letters and have the fifth in common too. Prezi is the social-media-presenting-tool equivalent of Johnny Depp about a decade ago. Yes, you read that right. Prezi is that good. It's pretty, AND it's got a bit of substance.

Pretty, with substance, and also quite a weird elbow

But let's dwell for a second on the "about a decade ago" bit. It's a disclaimer, sure, but a necessary one, for two, almost three reasons: the second and third (and presumably fourth) Pirates of the Caribbean films. Let me explain. It is no understatement to say that Mr Johnny Depp, as the spicily and charismatically dreadlocked Captain Jack Sparrow, just about rescued the second and third films from cataclysm in such a profound, heroic way that even Lassie would've been impressed. Johnny Depp just about made sure that the second and third Pirates films were successful, despite being poorly made, audience-inappropriate and, frankly, rubbish. But Prezi won't do that. Or not yet, anyway. A Prezi is only as good as the person who created, crafted, directed and presented it; it is only as good insofar as it meets the needs of the presentation's audience; and it is only as good as the content is in the first place. We've all heard of "death by Powerpoint", but "death by Prezi" isn't a fiction: it's just that the former is the common cold to the latter's more exciting tropical disease. Still death, though, innit.

The trouble is that Prezi's a bit tricksy and it's got a tight grip. It takes a proper, real amount of investment to understand its foibles and its quirks; and it takes bags more investment to get it to work for you effectively; and the whole luggage collection at John Lewis' worth of investment to learn to resist twizzing upside down for every third point. It's little wonder, then, that Prezi's bedfellow is the temptation to use it for All The Presentations. After all, you now have the Skillz! But please, please, I implore you, don't. For two reasons. First, because if everyone uses Prezi then it stops being exciting and impressive and dramatic and breathtaking (and as Disney taught me, if everyone's incredible, then no one is), just like if Johnny Depp was in All The Films it might get a bit boring. There's the fact that all Prezis look a leeeetle bit similar, for one. But also the main chunk of a Prezi's impact is centred on the fact that it is Not-Powerpoint. And once everyone's using Not-Powerpoint, then Powerpoint might make some kind of retro comeback. And no one wants that. Not even Microsoft want that.

The second reason, and the more important one, is that just because we know how to do something doesn't mean we ought to do it all the time. (The only exception to this rule is the ability to make cakes, but only because there are no losers if everyone's constantly baking). Giving in to the temptation to use Prezi just 'cos you can, and chucking in some irrelevant zooming and twizzing about and turning upside down and flying about as quickly as Edward Scissorhands can do topiary, might shroud the reason you're using it in the first place: presumably, to get a message across to a group of people. Prezi is only ever the vehicle for that message. And the Holy Grail of knowing how to present well is being able to make the decision about what vehicle to use: the Ford Focus (Powerpoint); the plastic red and yellow one from Early Learning Centre (none at all, but just talking); or the bus from Speed (Prezi). And, see, I'm not the only one to think this: Andy reached a similar conclusion, and he has actual evidence, rather than conjecture and car analogies.

I'm going to bring this madness to a conclusion with a bit more, and finish with the old typical Blue Peter-esque adage: here's one I made earlier. A Prezi, that is. An example of bad practice, yes, but just a bit of fun too. And not featuring Johnny Depp at all. I don't know what I was thinking.

Prince of Bel-Air on Prezi

This is what we do* (also known as #cpd23 Thing 16: advocacy)

It's high time that I gathered up the fast-decaying pieces of cpd23 and looked at Thing 16, in the interests of finishing at some stage before Father Christmas wheezes himself down a nearby chimney. At the moment, alas, it's looking less likely that I'll finish by Crimbo than that heartbroken Harry from Spooks, the fragrant Sue Perkins and the small one from 3T will join forces and release a cover of The Village People's In the Navy, earning themselves, in the process, the coveted Christmas no. 1 spot, and a much less coveted interview with Fearne Cotton. I'll admit: I've been procrastinating with Thing 16. Advocacy and activism is a daunting topic, right? It's daunting because the need for both is undeniably patent: the situation in Brent, and Kensal Rise, and Bolton, and all across the country, demonstrates how important advocacy and activism are,  more clearly than when you're Johnny Nash and the rain has gone. It's daunting because it's one of those areas where our intentions are often as mismatched with our actions as Highclere Castle and the cheapest tent Asda can get away with selling. And hell, putting those facts together can make us feel as inadequate as your average Bullseye contestant (with less chance of going home with a speedboat, too), and as guilty as a nun who's just nicked a bottle of vodka from her local Spar, stored it in her wimple while she snuck it into the convent, and is doing shots from the bottle cap while watching back-to-back episodes of Kavanagh QC. It's doubly, triply, daunting because, so much of the time, the stakes are as high as a giraffe's eyebrows.

Harry, and not Sue Perkins. Or any member of 3T.

Talking about advocacy and activism is a bit tricksy. For one thing, while they're not the same thing, they're not complete opposites--they go together like rama lama lama ke whatever it is; and for another thing, they can take place on more fronts than Brighton and Blackpool combined. The one that's glaringly and eye-poppingly obvious at the moment is public libraries. I'll be honest: I'm not in the camp that thinks we have some unmitigated, inescapably grave duty in our roles as librarians and info pros to advocate for other libraries and librarians. It's not, of course, that I wish people wouldn't; rather, I'm just not in the business of telling other grown up people what they should be doing or thinking. I'm a leeeetle bit nervous of any views that demand that we all, without exception, should be fighting tooth, nail and hairpiece to save the libraries as endangered as the panda from ending up as dead as the Barry White.

Not Barry White.

But, hellfire, where would we be without the people who are fighting tooth, nail and hairpiece for them? I'm not always entirely in agreement with how arguments are made (I've seen, on occasion, expressions from the pro-library band of sisters and brothers which display marginally counterproductive levels of aggression and fury, borne of frustration and nowt else, most of the time), but the arguments themselves are usually bang on the money. I'm definitely guilty of the intention/action disparity when it comes to public library campaigning and I should do better. But it's in the best interests of most that I wait until I've got a bit more time and a bit more cleverness, because at the moment my very best and shiniest argument in favour of public libraries is based on an analogy of Hawaii-Five-0. You wanna hear it? OK, then, here goes. Public libraries are good. So was Hawaii-Five-0 (the original). But then them in charge got rid of Hawaii-Five-0, and then they realised what a mistake this was, and they brought it back. So if them in charge also get rid of libraries, then they're bound to realise their mistake, and bring them back again. But instead of the brilliant original, they'll end up with the equivalent of the remake.  Hawaii-Five-0 became about vapid, pretty boys with, granted, excellent quiffs and a propensity for taking their shirts off at uncharacteristically regular intervals. It may have the same theme tune, but the resemblance ends there. And if the same thing happens to libraries, well, they'll sort of look the same, and they'll sound the same, but they'll also have huge plotholes, and too much of the budget will be spent on hair gel, and they'll go in for entirely unjustified toplessness. And no one wants that in a library. Well, not every day, anyway.

Not librarians.

Then there are other types, other directions of advocacy. First off, it takes place in our individual libraries. I'm pretty lucky to work somewhere that's really valued by users and under no ostensible threats from them upstairs. But it is shrouded, just a bit, by a misconception of what we do, a myth perpetuated by people who should know better (i.e. academics). So most of the time, advocacy at work consists of saying things like, well, yes, young student, we do have books, but hark! the herald electronic resources sing! it is also available as an ebook. Open up that there laptop. And why, thank you, young student, we are a handsome place to work, excuse the blushes, but we are more than just a pretty face overlooking the river. We can also teach you how to find things, and organise whatever you find, and create sparkling bibliographies that are so thrilling that it would only be a little bit weird to unveil them with props including a tape casette of Carl Orff's Carmina Burana and a truckload of dry ice.  It's the kind of advocacy that resembles a slow-cooker more than a microwave. It's the kind of advocacy that's about turning the users one at a time, and fortunately for all, is a lot less cultish than I've just made it sound.

Also not just a pretty face.

Last, there's the bit of advocacy that involves the profession itself. If I had a pound coin for every time I've simpered, "no, really, truly, I don't stamp books and I don't shush", I'd have, well, about five pounds. Not that much, then, which might be a sign that the message is finally getting through, just a bit, that it ain't necessarily so-lely about the dewey decimal system. I've got this bad habit of trying to make what I do sound a bit esoteric, so I talk about the secrets of the open access repository, and try to make Marc21 sound as complex and nuanced as an ancient Assyrian dialect (not that it isn't); it's like a bad, persisting hangover of long-word syndrome. I might be better off emphasising the core of what it is that I actually do: help people to find the resources to be better at whatever it is they're doing, and preventing them from drowning in irrelevant information while they're doing so, and ensuring that if U2 were in the room, then by now, they'd definitely have found what they were looking for. If only so I could show them the door post haste.

*Yes, I am quoting MC Hammer. And the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. You got a problem with that?

Morning campers! (also known as #libcampuk11: Library Camp)

I'm taking a little break from cpd23 to write about my Big Day Out in Birmingham last Saturday. Despite having argued countless times with countless people about the fact that Birmingham is, yes, in The South Of England (oh yes it is), I'd never actually been. Birmingham, the home of cheap shoe shops (based on what I saw, Brummies, please don't be cross), of a deservingly disreputable train station, and at least one Gap. I decided early on to travel there and back on the day, despite Cambridge's location on the rail network. For those of you who don't have the "privilege" of living here, it's approximately harder to get to Cambridge from any part of the UK that isn't London than it would be to get from Bognor Regis to Timbuktu with a road map of West Bromwich and a rickshaw as your only companions. Anyway, this all just about meant that I had to get up at 4.30 in the morning and as I normally only concede to a 4am start when there's a fortnight's holiday at the end of it, my standards were incomparably high. Would there be beaches and cocktails, ice cream and palm trees? No, because we were going to Birmingham, and even I'm not completely bonkers. The best we could hope for was Shirley Valentine with Midlands accents and (hopefully) less sleaze and (hopefully) fewer evidently dyed moustaches. Worse still, we were travelling by train. And no matter how hard you try, there is no Brief Encounter-esque spin you can easily impose on a Virgin Pendolino train, especially with its lingering aroma of "panini" and spilt lucozade. The journey was NOT like a Noel Coward film with less Rachmaninov and more Watford. And watching the sun rise over Coventry is not as richly deserving of a Merchant Ivory production as you might initially think.

Not set in New Street

What I knew about Library Camp before I signed up could be written on the inside of a Tunnock's Caramel Wafer wrapper. First, it has a superlative name. I like things with Good Names. (Hello, Benedict Cumberbatch). Second, everyone else was signing up for it, and I am a sucker for Missing Out Syndrome. While this may imply that I am merely a character from Shaun the Sheep but with thumbs and access to the interwebs, it is nonetheless as remarkably potent a motivator as the eponymous gentleman from GMTV circa 1996, and even better, all without the yellow lycra. Third, lots of the other people that were signing up for it were people that I follow on the twitters and the prospect of being allowed able to follow them around in real life for a couple of hours was a temptation of near-biblical proportions.

The unconference idea was totally new to me. Its basic premises--a deliberate lack of speakers, sorting stuff out on the day, seeing what happens, going with the flow, rolling with the punches--were aces. And though I'll admit to being a little disappointed that I misunderstood what "voting with feet" would actually entail (I imagined some kind of aerobic metatarsal abacus), the way that it was run--a semblance of disorganisation underpinned by weeks of careful thought and planning by the genius organisers--was as new and as fresh as the three-week old birthday cake on our kitchen table is old and rotten (no one will take responsibility for it, so it will still be there at Christmas*). And it was as interesting and as enlightening as those Aviva adverts you have to sit through to get to the historical hanky-panky on Downton Abbey are tedious and depressing.

I went to four sessions during the day and didn't write down a single thing. So I am drawing what follows from the deepest darkest depths of my brain where it is wedged in between the lyrics to Billy Joel's We didn't start the fire, some limited knowledge of the filmography of Will Hay, and my list of (pathetic but long-lasting and increasingly insane) reasons why I haven't ever, and don't want to ever, watch Star Wars. Fortunately for all concerned I am certain that there will be a great group of more precise, sensible and talented bloggers than I could ever hope to be who will write up the important stuff. But anyway, in the interests of joining in, let me try to briefly précis them and see what I brought home with me:

• On cat and class: the difference between what librarians actually do, and what systems librarians wish they'd do and ask Father Christmas for every year; the inherent flaws in the concept of having bibliographical standards; the terror and terrorisation of MARC; and essentially how cataloguers are So Damn Cool that I'm starting to believe that Squeeze's seminal hit was not about felines after all (music cataloguers, take note, your subject headings are wrong).
• On special collections: what they are and what it means to deal with them; the balance between making stuff available and controlling the hordes; why the phrase 'to have and to hold' might need to be split in two when special collections are involved; forming partnerships and knowing when to give things to other people to take care of (a strategy which I intend to adopt if I ever have to deal with children).
• On legacies: adopting and battling against the ones you inherit and are stuck with; how they're perpetuated and by whom; how they're tricksy and self-protective and can preclude us from chucking them all out and starting from scratch. And about the extent to which we've all, as a profession, inherited this bigger, near universal legacy, a blooming Voldemort-at-the-height-of-his-nose-free-power of legacies, and that's the one that's edging libraries closer to the Bermuda triangle now. There was also a small amount of talk about Frank Skinner in the buff but I think we all regretted that. And no, I was definitely not in any way responsible for that. (And no, I'm not protesting too much before you get there).
• On FE colleges and HE colleges: how they deal with different and competing user groups and staff concerns over different levels and extents of service; how individual libraries don't often face problems that are particularly unique: often we're all in the same boat and maybe if we share some solutions we can make sure that the boat we're all in isn't the rapidly sinking Titanic but the one from Arthur Ransome's Swallows and Amazons and instead of being about to drown, we're going on an adventure in the Lake District (where there's a far greater possibility of cream tea). And how buttering up the IT staff is often a solution to all the world's problems.

Much better, yeah?

During the last hour of the day, I muscled in with the #knitcamp crowd and as a non-knitter I enjoyed my own little #skivecamp and had a quick brew and a nice sit down. I've said this countless times, but there aren't half some talented folk in them there libraries. Katie was demonstrating the four needles approach to knitting: but give me four needles and I'll make that joke from the Two Ronnies, realise it doesn't work and poke my eyes out hanging my head in shame. Sian and Sam had these amazing and confusing circular knitting needles: but give me those and I'd be guaranteed to accidentally strangle myself within seven seconds just by trying to work out what in the heck was Going On.

There's been a gaping omission so far in this blog post. I haven't yet mentioned the C-word. Get your mind out of the gutter, I don't mean cardigans. The other C-word. Cake. I am a self-professed and perfectly content non-baker, but that doesn't meant that I don't remain in a consistent, staggering state of awe of those who don't believe that the natural origin of a Victoria sponge is a Marks and Spencers. I've never seen so much cake in my entire life. Special mentions of course must go to Katie's award-winning beetroot cake, and a doff of the hat also to Jenni's peanut butter cookies, and the unknown makers of the Welsh cakes and the proper Scottish tablet**. Add in the couple of pints in the pub while avoiding New Street and waiting for the train home, as well as what Bonnie and Clyde (also known as Ed and Elizabeth, but I won't say which one's which) bullied me relentlessly into having for tea in King's Cross Station, it was no wonder that Sunday was a day for my fat pants.

Last of all, then, a lofty and genuine CHEERS ME DEARS to everyone who rocked up in Birmingham, who shared their thoughts and their wisdom and their jokes, especially to them from the twitters who pretended to know who I was, and to the organisers for a cracking idea, an even better execution, and for the promise of another one next year (can I just propose the idea of a library nunconference where we all have to wear habits? Go on, I've not worn mine for years). Anyone want to get a book going for how fast the ticks will go next time? I'll give you good odds, promise...

*Amazingly, while I've been writing this, one of the genius housemates has taken one for the team and got rid of the cake.
** Edit (Tuesday morning): I am reliably informed by Jo that the maker of the delicious proper Scottish tablet was the illustrious and marvellous Jaffne. Thanks Jaf! It was almost as yummy as Gary Barlow. (That's a compliment). 

We're the Chipmunks (also known as Thing 15: Conferences and events)

In the words of Dinnerladies' Petula Gordino: "I'm back! New venue, new caravan, new kidney". OK, so I haven't got the kind of excuse for going AWOL that would match moving house or getting an organ transplant or ... buying a caravan. I haven't got anything at all new.  But the only other references I could think of for "being back" involved either the Backstreet Boys or Eminem and, well, let's just stick to Julie Walters. No, my excuse is that I've been hiding out in Aberwristwatch, both the town itself and the concept, writing an essay and, now it's done, it's time to pick up the shattered pieces of my floundering and flailing attempt to stay even vaguely up to date with cpd23.

Aber. Possibly with a bit of artistic license.

Fortunately, Thing 15 is about conferences and seminars and events, all of which I like. At best, you meet good people and learn good stuff; at worst, you get a day off work and are able to practise the art of the regimented drinking of lacklustre tea. Katie asks us in the main blog to look at conferences and events from three angles: as attendee, speaker and organiser. I do like a nice trichotomy. Trying to think of a way to frame the discussion was fun too. The Musketeers was an option but I only really know about Dogtanian and the Muskehounds, and I've realised that I mention Dogtanian with a worrying frequency already. Harry, Ron and Hermione: too overdone. Fathers Ted, Dougal and Jack: too sweary. Larry, Curly and Moe: would require Actual Research, and I've made it this far without that. Then it dawned on me. The winning concept. And by winning I mean that holy trinity of being not totally irrelevant, malleable enough to make it fit what I want to say, and in the 80s enough that anyone reading this will have forgotten what they need to contradict me. It's Alvin and the Chipmunks. The TV version, obviously. And as a self-respecting childless woman in her mid-twenties, I haven't watched the movie. OK, I'm lying. I'm in my late twenties, and I don't have that much self-respect. If I did I'd be drinking gin somewhere rather than writing this drivel. But I still haven't seen the film. Promise.

Attending conferences: the Theodore Seville approach

Theodore was always the lovely Chipmunk. Sweet, gullible, perhaps a little naive, and always hungry. Let's begin with the last attribute: hungry. The food at conferences is always REALLY important. There's something about eating to schedule that aggrandises how crucial soggy sandwiches and strange samosas actually are. It's mainly because it's free, so it transports us back to our student days, where the prospect of a free meal was more appetising than a first class degree any day of the week. And by free, I mean paid for so far in advance that we've forgotten about it. Conference food is usually pretty good: the Danish pastries at the Libraries @ Cambridge conference are worth attending for alone.

But then there are Theodore's other attributes, as I've said: sweet, gullible, perhaps a little naive. This is us at conferences. We rock up, wide-eyed, blinking, a little confused, and expecting the best. We anticipate meeting a whole cast of wonderful, fascinating people; we foresee learning magical and magnificent things; we imagine ourselves leaving feeling more inspired and more energised than a Duracell bunny. And for the most part, we do. For the most part. But I've never been to a conference where all the papers were great, nor where all the speakers were bursting at the seams with charisma, nor where I felt engaged or interested for the entire day. It's not that the papers or the people were boring; it's that speakers can't please all the people all the time. Battling that after lunch slump where the puniness of the tea you've been supping really becomes apparent is no mean task. And there are always speakers who are talking about something so far outside your field of awareness, let alone expertise, that you're as confused and bewildered as you would be if you went into a post office and there wasn't a queue.

The best bit about conferences leads me straight back to Theodore. He acts as the safe-for-children adhesive that bonds his often warring brothers together.  Attending conferences lets you meet people. And no matter how good buddies you are on Twitter, or the fact that you've emailed each other once, there's nothing like meeting up and bonding over the ever long queue for a plastic cup of some boiler water masquerading as tea, to make you allies.

Speaking at conferences: the Simon Seville approach

OK, OK, let's just ignore the fact that Simon's supposed to be the "clever" one. Of course I don't think that people who speak at conferences are cleverererer than their listening, or snoozing, counterparts. Of course. But what Simon does is this: he uses the opportunities he's given and he's pretty brave.

Speaking at conferences is undeniably an opportunity. If your topic is interesting to some people in the room, or if you're a good speaker, then it's an opportunity to teach people something, or to make them think about something differently. It's also, marginally more self-interestedly, a way to raise your profile or get your name known. But speaking at conferences is also something that requires a bit of courage. I know this from experience: earlier this year, I spoke at the New Professionals Conference, I directed a Q&A at the Libraries @ Cambridge conference, and in a couple of weeks I'm going to the CPD25 conference on applying to Library School to take part in a Q&A and big up Aber.

I'm not too fazed about speaking in public, especially if I can prepare in advance. Years and years of being forced to do masses of it while I was at school has numbed me to the nerves. When I was 17, I gave a Prizegiving speech to about 700 people, including my friends, classmates, teachers, school governors, guests, and more. I was meant to thank the main Prizegiver who was, fortunately, really interesting, and was (I think) one of the executive producers of Queer as Folk. The bit where I had to speak didn't bother me particularly: I'd memorised the speech and had it written down on index cards in my pocket. It was the bit where I had to carry a microphone to the front of the stage before speaking into it that bothered me. I was convinced that I'd trip over some wires or my feet and fall head first into the choir. It also bothered me that while I was doing all this I was being forced to wear a suit and high heels and make-up. There was such a lot of displacement going on there that the fact I had to say something faded entirely.

I don't mean to suggest for a second that a lack of fear translates into any particular oratorical skill; nor am I really suggesting that you make yourself forget about the bit where you have to say things out loud to people by doing a load of other stuff simultaneously that terrifies you more. Don't juggle fire, please, while giving a paper on the digital humanities--if nothing else, the conference organisers will have coronaries. But what I would say to people who are nervous about speaking is this:

• One, offer to speak, or submit a proposal. If you get turned down, try again. If you get accepted, there's no going back. You can cross the bridge of terror when you come to it.
• Two, prepare properly. Both the proposal and the paper. Makes the slides good. Practise enough so you know the gist and flow of the paper, but don't memorise it. Be comfortable with what you're going to say. Take out long words that your tongue trips over, for example.
• Three, remember everyone in the audience is just very happy that it's you that's speaking and not them.
• Four, no one is really focusing on your nerves. At the start, they're thinking about their stomachs, or last night's episode of Glee, or why whoever chose the uncomfortable chairs they're squirming on thought hot pink and orange stripes would be a good design choice. Once you get going, they're thinking about what you're saying, and still not whether or not you're nervous.
• Five, remember they're all Theodore. They're gullible, sweet, perhaps a little naive, and looking up to their big brother Simon, who has all the answers.

Organising conferences: the Alvin Seville approach

OK, then, Alvin. The lead guy, the main dude. Alvin is impulsive, confident, inspired, and full of boundless energy. I imagine that if you're organising a conference or event, these traits would fall into the "essential" category, rather than simply desirable. Conference organising takes a whole host of valuable, brilliant skills of which I am totally envious. It's everything from booking venues and getting speakers and choosing samosas and making name badges to taking the risk of contracting arthritis by keeping your fingers crossed for the seventeen days running up to the big event, and hoping that something unexpected like an alien invasion doesn't happen to scupper all these well laid plans.  I take my proverbial hat off, and offer three cheers and a bottle of gin to everyone involved in the organisation of next week's Library Camp! Organisers are SO talented.

It's not something I've ever really done; I kind of helped out with the Libraries @ Cambridge conference in January this year, but that really just consisted in attending a hilarious meeting with Andy, Lyn and Rose, showing up early to give out name badges, and holding a microphone whilst worrying that I wouldn't fall (actually, that's a theme. I wonder what it is about microphones that makes me think I'm going to tumble to my death or, worse, utter humiliation). So anyway, I can't take much credit for that conference. But maybe one day I'll get my chance. If ever there's a conference on the impact of Benedict Cumberbatch on the information society, you'll know who's behind it.

Why I only have eyes for Zotero (also known as #cpd23 Thing 14: Reference management)

What's that you say? Write another ode to Zotero? Go on then. In fact, I'll just talk about Zotero. Call it cheating, if you will, but I prefer to think of it rather as giving both my readers a small reprieve from the depressingly overlong drivel I usually present (and the fact that I've nicked that joke from Terry Wogan of all people proves the point). I say another ode because this time last year I went on and on and on (in a style not dissimilar to one Mrs Doyle) about how brilliant Zotero is. If you're a glutton for punishment, look, here. And, at this point, my assessment was entirely prognostic. I hadn't used Zotero, but I predicted that it would be wonderful. I compared Zotero to Sherlock Holmes, who would definitely have made it into the song if I had been responsible for The Sound of Music's My Favourite Things. I registered a measly, mean 15% cynicism, centring around the fact that I felt coerced against my will to use Firefox. A year on, though, and I've actually used Zotero. A year on, and I can confirm that I had quite the premonition. To hell with this librarian business, I'm going to the registry office or the post office or the petrol station or wherever it is you go to change your name, for surely I am the spiritual descendent of Mystic Meg. Perhaps if I'm lucky I'll be able to forge a new career for myself predicting lottery numbers, and appear weekly alongside Eamonn Holmes on some abysmally lobotomic Saturday night quiz show. (Please, please, don't let this ever happen to me). A year on, though, and I can confirm that Zotero is really rather good indeed.

It's BACK SOON

Not only that, but I've since learned that while my earnest entreaties to the good folks at Zotero for a Chrome plug-in have fallen on deaf ears, the geniuses (for surely there is no other word) have gone one better and created a desktop version, liberating me forever (I presume) from my Firefoxy prison, and making the whole thing sturdier, more robust, and less likely to be discontinued or decommissioned or discarded as if it were a bag of Primark shoes and Fun House VHS' outside a charity shop. (This is all supposition, I should say, but Mystic Murph might just triumph again). In any case, this has been the best news I've had since Bolton Wanderers managed to cling onto Cahill in the football transfer window (and yes, it has been a slow week).

Hurray!

If there's a direct alternative to the ghastly cliché about not knowing what you've got till it's gone, then I need it here, but I can't remember it. Maybe something along the lines of not knowing what you've got until you've suffered through several thousand years of manual referencing? Or not knowing how good Joni Mitchell's Big Yellow Taxi is until you've endured Janet Jackson's torturous sampling of its chorus? Like most sane people, I hate doing actual, pain-staking, manual referencing almost as much as I hate an empty bottle of gin. It involves far too much checking of full stops for my liking, and takes such a lot of organisation to do it properly and efficiently. Having said that, I do think that there's a huge amount of value in actually knowing how to do it yourself, without some fancypants software to take the trouble out of it on your behalf. But this is teetering a bit close to a "in MY day" story now, and frankly I'm just not old enough for that, so I'll change the subject.

She totally deserves a picture.

Reference management isn't something that we'd directly use for CPD, clearly, but for our potentially plethoric publications, essays, reviews, and so on, that clearly we are all writing, all the time, this kind of tool is invaluable, and it's good to know how it works. But Isla's Thing 14 post made me think about something else too. Isla mentioned a couple of alternatives to Zotero, namely Mendeley and cite-u-like. I'll admit that I saw Zotero and totally shunned the other two. This is, very partially, because of time constraints, and perhaps the next time I have a free moment I'll look at the others, but as things stand that'll be in about seven hundred years and I'll be prising the laptop open with my cold dead hands. But, mainly, it was because I saw Zotero, and thought, hello Zotero, my old friend, I've come to talk with you again, and wondered why on this luscious earth I'd ever bother with the others.

What was that reaction?! At first, I thought, loyalty. To Zotero and to me, because I've invested bits of time figuring out how it works. And then, I thought, satisfaction, because Zotero does everything I need it to, apart from presenting me with tea and cakes for every fifteen minutes that I spend having to cite things. Or gratitude, perhaps, that Zotero fundamentally limits my association with the deepest and gloomiest depths of APA referencing. Or a combination of the three. The conclusion I had about Zotero was that it works for me. And that'll do, pig. If it ain't broke, don't fix it.

But then, I thought, that isn't generally our response to Web 2.0 tools. When Google+ was launched, librarians flocked to it in droves. It was like that bit in Braveheart when the Scots attack, but with a far smaller percentage of people faking Scottish accents. With some Web 2.0 tools, then, we adopt the "ain't brokey, no fixy" approach, and with others, it's more like a "ain't brokey, but look at its potentially better, more attractive cousin". Sometimes we're dead loyal, sometimes more committed than I am to Take That (which is A LOT). Sometimes we move onto what we perceive (wrongly, perhaps) as the better, more popular model, as if we were Brad Pitt and social media tools were Angelina Jolie and poor old Jennifer Aniston. My seven minutes of thinking about this while typing this paragraph makes me think that it all boils down to what the tools are for, and whether their purpose is clear-cut, because that determines whether we can two-time them usefully, legitimately, and positively. So because I use Zotero for references, I have no need for Mendeley; because I use Diigo for social bookmarking, I have no need for Delicious. Using two reference management software packages, or using two social bookmarking sites, would be more a monumental waste of time and/or more confusing than the success of The Inbetweeners film at the box office. But because Twitter, for example, can be used in loads of ways, and because its purpose isn't clear-cut, and because it's multifunctional, it's harder to replace, and harder to displace, with some exciting new innovation. Like Google+.

I'm TOTALLY digressing now. So I'll stop. In sum: Zotero is lovely, Twitter is indestructible. But then so was the Titanic, until it sank. And on that bombshell...

Dropbox it like it's hot (also known as #cpd23 Thing 13: Collaborative tools)

So call me the Maradona of cpd23, but I'm going to cheat a bit here and focus on Dropbox. Partly because I've got further behind with these Things than the plans for the tram in Edinburgh, and partly because I've already written about wikis and Google Docs, and in the words of Take That, I have "said it all". (And probably, also, in the words of Take That, I have "nothing to say that matters".) Anyway, if you want to read the posts, they're here: wikis and Google Docs; but if you've got more sense than that, here's just a quick précis. Wikis, I decided, were like Blackadder. It wasn't a successful analogy (surprise surprise), but my cunning plan (more cunning than a f... you know how it ends) was to disguise the rubbishness of my analogy by shoehorning in a load of brilliant quotes from Blackadder and a few pictures of Hugh Laurie. And I got the quotes from wikis, thereby justifying their worth indubitably.  Google Docs, I said, was "like ER circa 1997". It wasn't fiddly or insane or confused; and it didn't require any particular cleverness or any particular George Clooney. Having used Google Docs to make my teensy contribution to cpd23, I can confirm that it doesn't require any particular cleverness, and George Clooney is nowhere in sight. The minor problem that when a document gets a bit long and unwieldy, it would be easier to drink Irn Bru from a colander without spilling it than figuring out who said what and when. In the scheme of things, though, it's still pretty good.

I think I prefer this George to the Clooney.

Dropbox, on the other hand, isn't pretty good. It's utterly brilliant. I have one message for you, Dropbox: no one likes a show off. There it is, sitting on my desktop and twinkling away, silently advertising its ease of use, and the fact that it can sync across more computers than there are camel's eyelashes in this world. Dropbox, with its lack of prejudice about the type of files that can be 'dropped' in it, offering quietly to save you the endless minor irritation of having to email things to yourself, and letting you share your things with the Other People. Seamless, that's what Dropbox is. And really, really good. It's the first-class-complete-with-honours graduate of the social media universe.

Just checking though.

The problem with Dropbox is that because it's so reliable and effective and seamless and good and simple and pleased with itself, it is, to entirely misquote Nat King Cole, totally forgettable. Dropbox just sits there, wiling away its time, unobjectionably, unobtrusively, waiting for me to drop a file in it and let it spring to life like when you give a pound coin to those moving statues. This is an Unfortunate Attribute. The positive thing about this unfortunate attribute is that IN THEORY remembering that Dropbox exists is a bit like when you go to an 80s night and the DJ plays "Waiting for a star to fall" and you remember just how flipping AWESOME that song is. It's joyfully revelatory. (No? Really? That just me?). The negative thing about this unfortunate attribute is that it never, ever happens like this. No, instead, it's like hearing "Waiting for a star to fall" at 4 in the morning through the taxi's tinny radio on your way home. When it's too late. The moment has passed. Because the second you remember that Dropbox exists is the second that you open a file you've just emailed to yourself.  Or that someone's emailed to you. When the deed is done.

Definitely right first time.

Dropbox is, unquestionably, really pretty brilliant. It could do with promoting itself a bit more, though. And by "promoting itself", I mean adopting an irritating feature to encourage me to remember to use it. Might I suggest that when you open Dropbox it plays a short version of Snoop Dogg ft. Pharrell's "Drop it like it's hot"--memorable enough to ensure that you, in the words of Take That, "never forget", but not so annoying that it'd put you off using it. Because the trouble is that while Dropbox might be the first-class-complete-with-honours graduate of the social media universe, that ain't no guarantee of a job these days.