Is Anybody Out There?

Image Borrowed from Wilson's Point Historical Site

A Blog About Blogs, a Haggis Hunt, and the Unexpected Joy of Discovering Someone Is Listening

There is a peculiar kind of madness involved in writing a blog.

You sit yourself down, usually with a cup of tea that will inevitably go cold, stare at a blank screen, and begin pouring out whatever thoughts have been rattling around inside your skull. Sometimes they're profound. Sometimes they're funny. Sometimes they're deeply personal, and occasionally they're little more than the ramblings of a middle-aged Scotsman trying to make sense of a world that seems to be getting stranger by the minute.

You write. You edit. You delete entire paragraphs because they sounded considerably better in your head. You question your choice of words, your grammar, your sanity, and occasionally whether you should have bothered getting out of bed in the first place.

Then, eventually, you finish.

You give your literary masterpiece one final glance, convince yourself that it might actually be worth reading, and press that little button marked Publish.

And then...

Nothing.

Absolutely hee-haw.

No thunderous applause. No standing ovation. No appreciative audience rising from their seats to proclaim you the next great literary voice of Scotland.

Just silence.

You close the laptop, wander off to do something considerably less artistic, and wonder whether anybody, anywhere, will ever read the words you've just spent several hours wrestling into existence.

And if you're anything like me, you tell yourself that it doesn't matter.

You're writing for yourself, after all.

Aye.

Of course you are.

And I'm the King of Scotland.

The Strange Business of Talking to Nobody

For those who don't know me, I'm a storyteller.

Not just somebody who occasionally tells a funny anecdote at the pub, although I've certainly been guilty of that. Storytelling is my profession, my passion, my livelihood, and, depending on whom you ask, a rather serious personality defect.

For more than fifteen years, I've stood before audiences of all shapes and sizes, from intimate gatherings around a fire to enormous festivals where thousands of people wander past, some deliberately stopping to listen and others simply trying to locate the nearest turkey leg.

I've told tales in castles, theatres, historic buildings, fields, streets, and places where the wind has attempted to remove both my dignity and my kilt.

And there's one thing that all these experiences have in common.

I know when somebody is listening.

When you're standing before an audience, you can feel it.

There's a shift in the atmosphere when a story begins to take hold. Conversations quieten. Heads turn. Somebody leans forward. A child stops fidgeting. A grown man who was clearly dragged along by his wife suddenly finds himself caught up in a tale of murder, mischief, or some unfortunate soul meeting a particularly unpleasant end.

You can see the smiles.

You can hear the laughter.

You can feel the silence when a story reaches that moment where nobody wants to breathe for fear of breaking the spell.

And when it's over, you know whether you've connected.

Sometimes there's applause. Sometimes laughter. Sometimes somebody approaches afterwards to tell you that your story reminded them of their grandfather, their childhood, or a place they haven't visited in decades.

That, to me, is the magic.

But blogging?

Blogging is an entirely different beast.

It's storytelling without an audience.

Or at least without an audience you can see.

You're standing on an imaginary stage, speaking into a darkened auditorium, hoping that somewhere beyond the lights there's somebody sitting in a chair.

For all you know, the entire building is empty, the caretaker has gone home, and you're performing for a particularly unimpressed spider.

And yet you keep writing.

Because sometimes the words need somewhere to go.

The Blogs That Disappeared

Over the years, I've written about all sorts of things.

Storytelling, naturally. The craft, the performances, the audiences, and the strange circumstances that arise when you spend your life attempting to entertain complete strangers.

I've written about Scotland, Edinburgh, the streets I once wandered, and the peculiar ache of homesickness that never quite disappears, even after years of building a life on the other side of the Atlantic.

I've written about being a father, growing older, finding purpose, losing confidence, and occasionally wondering whether the man I see in the mirror is the same fellow who once charged around Edinburgh with the energy of a caffeinated Highland warrior.

I've written about happiness, sadness, the quiet that follows a busy performance, and the rather uncomfortable business of admitting that even those of us who spend our lives making other people smile don't always feel particularly cheerful ourselves.

Some blogs have been funny.

Others have been rather darker.

And a few have involved me exposing considerably more of my thoughts and feelings than I would ever have imagined possible when I first began writing.

But they all have one thing in common.

They are little pieces of me.

Not the polished performer standing on a stage.

Not the larger-than-life Scotsman wielding a microphone and attempting to convince several thousand people that they're having the time of their lives.

Just me.

A man sitting at a keyboard, trying to put his thoughts into some sort of order.

For a while, I was doing rather well.

I'd established something resembling a routine. A blog each week. A little window into whatever was happening in my world.

Then the performance season arrived.

And, as it has a habit of doing, life grabbed me by the scruff of the neck and dragged me off on another adventure.

There were festivals to attend, events to host, stories to tell, workshops to deliver, miles to travel, and an alarming amount of equipment to load and unload.

There were early mornings, late nights, unfamiliar beds, endless roads, and the occasional moment when I found myself wondering which province I was currently standing in.

And somewhere among all that travelling, performing, packing, unpacking, and trying to remember whether I'd actually eaten lunch...

The blogs stopped.

Not deliberately.

There was no grand announcement.

No emotional farewell.

No carefully composed message informing my devoted readership that I would be taking a temporary sabbatical from the written word.

I simply became busy.

One week slipped past.

Then another.

And another.

Every so often, I'd think, I really should write something.

But there was always something else demanding attention.

A booking enquiry. An event schedule. A script to prepare. A journey to make. A family that quite reasonably expected me to occasionally remember I lived in the same house as them.

And because nobody had said anything, I assumed nobody had noticed.

Which brings me to a rather remarkable encounter.

The Great Haggis Hunt of Wilson's Point

Now, if there's one thing that makes perfect sense to a Scotsman, it's gathering people together in New Brunswick to hunt haggis.

For those unfamiliar with this noble pursuit, the haggis is, of course, one of Scotland's most mysterious creatures.

Elusive, unpredictable, and notoriously difficult to capture, particularly once somebody discovers that the traditional version involves sheep's offal.

But that's a discussion for another day.

Our tale takes us to Wilson's Point, a beautiful historic site on the Miramichi, where a Scottish event known as the Haggis Hunt had brought people together for a little culture, community, laughter, and the sort of nonsense that makes Scottish gatherings such wonderful occasions.

I was there doing what I do.

Talking.

A great deal.

Which, considering my profession, shouldn't come as much of a surprise.

There were familiar faces, new faces, conversations, laughter, and that lovely atmosphere you get when people gather not because they have to, but because they genuinely want to be there.

And then something happened.

Something that, in the grand scheme of world events, would barely register as a footnote.

But for me?

It was rather extraordinary.

Somebody approached me and asked a question.

"Why haven't you written a blog in a while?"

Now, I've been asked all sorts of questions over the years.

Where in Scotland are you from?

Is that your real accent?

What's under the kilt?

Can you tell us a story?

And, perhaps most frequently, are you always this loud?

But this question caught me completely off guard.

Why hadn't I written a blog?

I probably looked rather confused.

Because, you see, my first thought wasn't about why I'd stopped writing.

It was something considerably more surprising.

You read my blogs?

Not only did this person read them, but they had been enjoying them.

They'd been reading them weekly.

Following along.

Looking forward to the next one.

And then, suddenly, nothing.

I'd vanished.

Gone quiet.

Left them in the dark, wondering what had happened to the rambling Scotsman who had been turning up regularly in their reading routine.

And there I was, standing at a Haggis Hunt, feeling like I'd just been caught sneaking away from a family gathering without saying goodbye.

I explained, of course.

The travelling. The festivals. The performances. The hectic schedule.

All perfectly reasonable explanations.

But as I spoke, I felt something I hadn't expected.

Guilt.

Genuine guilt.

Because while I'd been wandering around the country telling stories to audiences, somebody had been waiting for me to tell another one on the page.

And I hadn't even known they were there.

One Person

Now, here's where things become rather interesting.

We live in a world obsessed with numbers.

Followers. Likes. Shares. Views. Engagement rates. Reach.

Everywhere you look, somebody is telling you that success is measured by how many people are watching.

If your video doesn't reach ten thousand people, apparently you've failed.

If your post doesn't receive hundreds of likes, you've somehow wasted your time.

If your audience isn't growing at a rate that would make a multinational corporation jealous, you should immediately reconsider your entire existence.

It's exhausting.

And, if I'm being perfectly frank, a load of old bollocks.

Because standing there at Wilson's Point, I discovered something that no social media dashboard could ever have communicated quite so effectively.

One person was reading my blogs.

One person.

And do you know what?

That made me ridiculously happy.

I'm not talking about a polite little smile and a modest nod of appreciation.

I'm talking about the sort of happiness that catches you completely unawares.

The sort that settles somewhere deep inside your chest.

Because suddenly, all those hours sitting at the keyboard weren't disappearing into the digital wilderness.

The words were going somewhere.

They were reaching somebody.

Somebody was choosing to spend a little of their precious time reading what I had written.

Not because they were being paid.

Not because they were related to me and felt some sort of familial obligation.

Not because I'd cornered them in a room and refused to let them leave until they'd finished the latest instalment.

But because they wanted to.

They enjoyed them.

They looked forward to them.

And when they stopped, they noticed.

I cannot begin to tell you how much that means.

Well, actually, I suppose that's exactly what I'm attempting to do with this blog.

Which is rather appropriate.

A blog about blogs.

We're getting dangerously close to disappearing up our own literary backside here.

The Audience You Never See

There's something rather humbling about discovering that your words have found a home in somebody else's life.

As a performer, I understand the importance of an audience.

Without them, I'm simply a Scottish man talking loudly to himself.

Which, admittedly, is not entirely unheard of.

But writing has taught me something different.

An audience doesn't always announce itself.

Sometimes it sits quietly in the background.

It doesn't press the like button.

It doesn't leave a comment.

It doesn't share your latest offering with half the population of Facebook.

It simply reads.

Perhaps over breakfast.

Perhaps during a lunch break.

Perhaps late in the evening when the house has finally gone quiet and there's a rare opportunity to sit down with a cup of tea.

You become a small part of somebody's routine without ever realising it.

And that's a remarkable privilege.

Think about it.

We all have our routines.

The newspaper we read. The radio programme we listen to. The podcast we follow. The television series we look forward to each week.

These things become familiar companions.

Little constants in a world that seems determined to change every five minutes.

And apparently, for at least one person, my blogs had become one of those little constants.

Then I disappeared.

No warning.

No explanation.

Just silence.

Imagine settling down every week to watch your favourite television programme, only to discover that the main character has wandered off to a medieval faire and forgotten to tell the production company.

You'd be rather annoyed.

And rightly so.

Although, knowing my luck, the replacement programme would probably get better ratings.

Why We Write

This encounter got me thinking about why I write blogs in the first place.

And I don't think there's one simple answer.

Partly, I write because I'm a storyteller, and stories don't always arrive at convenient moments.

Sometimes they appear while I'm driving.

Sometimes while I'm lying awake at some ridiculous hour.

Sometimes during an ordinary conversation when somebody says something that sets my mind wandering down a completely unexpected path.

And sometimes I write because there are things I can't quite express from a stage.

When you're performing, there's an expectation.

People want entertainment.

They want laughter, drama, excitement, a little escapism.

They've come to see the storyteller.

The fellow with the Scottish accent, the booming voice, and the ability to turn a perfectly ordinary historical incident into something involving murder, betrayal, and an unfortunate amount of blood.

But there's more to me than that.

There's the husband.

The father.

The immigrant who still misses Scotland.

The man who sometimes questions whether he's made the right decisions.

The performer who can entertain thousands of people and then return to a quiet hotel room feeling strangely empty.

The fellow approaching another birthday and wondering where on earth all those years have disappeared.

Writing gives those parts of me a voice.

It allows me to explore ideas without worrying about whether somebody in the third row is checking their watch.

It allows me to be vulnerable.

To be uncertain.

To admit that I don't always have the answers.

And sometimes, simply to have a good old-fashioned moan.

Which, as a Scotsman, is practically a cultural responsibility.

But there's another reason.

Connection.

It's always been about connection.

Whether I'm telling a tale beside a fire, speaking to a room full of people, recording a story into a microphone, or tapping away at a keyboard, I'm trying to do the same thing.

Reach somebody.

Make them laugh.

Make them think.

Perhaps remind them that they're not alone in whatever peculiar business life has thrown their way.

And sometimes, if I'm very fortunate, leave them feeling a little better than they did before.

That's the real reward.

Not the numbers.

Not the applause.

Not the digital equivalent of somebody patting you on the back.

The connection.

The Terrible Habit of Assuming Nobody Cares

I think many creative people fall into the same trap.

We create something.

We release it into the world.

And when there's no immediate response, we assume it hasn't mattered.

Writers do it.

Musicians do it.

Artists do it.

Performers certainly do it.

We measure the value of our work by the reaction we can see.

But the truth is, most of the impact we have on other people happens beyond our view.

Somebody might remember a story you told them years ago.

A sentence you wrote might have helped somebody through a difficult afternoon.

A joke might have made somebody laugh when they desperately needed it.

A piece of music might have reminded someone of a person they loved.

And you may never know.

That's both the frustration and the beauty of creating things.

You send a little piece of yourself out into the world, and you have absolutely no control over where it lands.

Sometimes it goes nowhere.

Sometimes it travels further than you could possibly imagine.

And sometimes it ends up in the hands of somebody who approaches you at a Scottish Haggis Hunt and asks why you've stopped writing.

There's a lesson in that.

One I clearly needed reminding of.

Silence doesn't necessarily mean nobody is listening.

And perhaps that's something we should all remember, whether we're writers, performers, business owners, teachers, or simply people trying to make a small difference in the world.

Not everybody who appreciates what you do will tell you.

Not everybody who benefits from your work will leave a review.

Not everybody who enjoys your stories will applaud.

Some will simply return.

Week after week.

Until one day, when you stop turning up, they wonder where you've gone.

The Difference Between Being Seen and Being Heard

There's another thought that's been rattling around inside my head since that encounter.

We spend an enormous amount of time trying to be seen.

Particularly those of us who work in the creative industries.

We build websites. We post photographs. We create videos. We wrestle with social media algorithms that appear to have been designed by a committee of particularly malicious goblins.

We promote ourselves.

We advertise.

We attempt to convince the world that what we do is worth paying attention to.

And somewhere along the way, we can become so focused on being visible that we forget the importance of being heard.

Those are two very different things.

Being seen is easy enough, at least for a moment.

Put on a kilt, stand in the middle of a field, and start shouting about Scottish history.

Trust me, people will look.

But being heard?

That requires something else.

It requires connection.

It requires somebody to stop, listen, and allow your words to become part of their thoughts.

And when somebody returns to those words voluntarily, week after week, that's something rather special.

It means you've moved beyond simply attracting attention.

You've earned a little piece of somebody's time.

And time, as I've become increasingly aware, is one of the most precious things we possess.

Nobody has to read my blogs.

There are millions of other things they could be doing.

They could be watching television, reading a book, scrolling through endless videos of cats behaving like tiny furry psychopaths, or simply enjoying five minutes of peace.

Instead, they choose to read something I've written.

I don't take that lightly.

At least, I won't be taking it lightly again.

A Small Apology from a Rather Large Scotsman

So, to the person who approached me at Wilson's Point during the Haggis Hunt, I owe you an apology.

I'm sorry.

I'm sorry I disappeared.

I'm sorry I left you waiting for another blog that never arrived.

And I'm particularly sorry that I didn't realise anybody was actually looking forward to them.

The truth is, life became busy.

Wonderfully, chaotically, exhaustingly busy.

And I allowed the writing to slip away.

I convinced myself that the blogs could wait because there were other things demanding my attention.

After all, nobody was asking for them.

Or so I thought.

You proved me wrong.

And I cannot thank you enough for that.

You probably had no idea how much your question meant.

It may have been nothing more than a passing comment during an enjoyable afternoon.

But for me, it was a reminder of something fundamental.

The stories matter.

Not because they reach thousands.

Not because they generate bookings or increase followers or make some algorithm sit up and take notice.

But because they reach people.

Even if it's just one.

Especially if it's just one.

Because that one person is not a statistic.

They're a human being.

Somebody with a life, thoughts, feelings, memories, and stories of their own.

And for a few minutes each week, our worlds meet through words on a screen.

That's a wonderful thing.

So, What Happens Now?

Well, first of all, I'm writing this.

Which is a fairly encouraging start.

I'd like to tell you that from this moment forward, there will be a beautifully polished blog arriving at precisely the same time every week, without fail, for the remainder of my natural life.

But I've lived long enough to know that making grand declarations is an excellent way of ensuring the universe immediately conspires against you.

There will still be events.

There will still be travelling.

There will still be performances, workshops, recordings, and all the other wonderful madness that makes up my rather unconventional existence.

There will still be days when I sit down to write and discover that my brain has apparently taken an unscheduled holiday.

And there will undoubtedly be occasions when the demands of being a husband, father, and self-employed storyteller leave me with little more than the energy required to collapse into a chair and stare blankly at the wall.

But I'm going to make a better effort.

Not because some marketing expert has told me that consistent blogging improves website traffic.

Not because I'm chasing engagement figures.

And certainly not because I believe the world is desperately waiting for my next profound observation about the human condition.

I'm going to make the effort because somebody asked me where the stories had gone.

And that matters.

Perhaps the next blog will be about storytelling.

Perhaps it'll be about Scotland.

Perhaps it'll be another rambling examination of what it means to grow older while stubbornly refusing to behave like a responsible adult.

Or perhaps something will happen tomorrow that sends my imagination galloping off in a completely different direction.

That's the joy of writing.

You never quite know where the words will take you.

But now, at least, I know somebody might be waiting at the other end.

To My Haggis-Hunting Fan

And so, this blog is dedicated to you.

My haggis-hunting fan.

The person who, in the middle of a Scottish gathering at Wilson's Point, reminded a storyteller that his stories were being read.

You didn't offer a grand speech.

You didn't present me with an award.

You didn't tell me that my writing had changed the course of human civilisation.

You simply asked why I hadn't written anything in a while.

And somehow, that meant more than you could possibly imagine.

You reminded me that the value of a story isn't measured by the size of its audience.

It's measured by the connection it creates.

You reminded me that behind every view, every click, and every quiet reader is a person.

And you reminded me that sometimes the smallest comments can have the greatest impact.

So thank you.

Thank you for reading.

Thank you for noticing.

And thank you for taking the time to tell me.

Because you didn't just encourage me to write another blog.

You reminded me why I started writing them in the first place.

And to anybody else who happens to have stumbled across these ramblings, whether you've been reading for months or this is your first unfortunate encounter with my literary efforts, welcome.

Pull up a chair.

Put the kettle on.

Make yourself comfortable.

I can't promise that every blog will be profound.

I can't promise that every joke will be funny.

And I certainly can't promise that I won't wander off on the occasional tangent involving Scottish history, fatherhood, the absurdities of modern life, or the ongoing mystery of how a man can own so many cables and still never find the one he needs.

But I can promise you this.

The words will be mine.

The thoughts will be genuine.

And somewhere behind the keyboard will be a Scotsman who is genuinely delighted that you've chosen to spend a little of your time in his company.

Because, when all is said and done, that's what storytelling has always been about.

Not the stage.

Not the spotlight.

Not the applause.

It's about one person sharing something with another.

A moment of laughter.

A moment of reflection.

A moment of understanding.

And occasionally, a moment when somebody says, "I was enjoying those. Where did you go?"

So here I am.

Back at the keyboard.

The tea has gone cold.

The house is doing whatever houses do when you're attempting to concentrate.

And I've spent far longer than intended writing a blog about the fact that I haven't been writing blogs.

Which, when you think about it, is a wonderfully ridiculous situation.

But I wouldn't have it any other way.

And if you're reading this, my friend, I hope it brings a smile to your face.

Because this one's for you.

Until the next tale...

Keep the stories alive, keep the kettle warm, and if you happen to spot a haggis wandering around Wilson's Point, for heaven's sake, don't let it get away.

After all, I might need something to write about next week.

Calum Lykan

Weaver of Dreams, Slayer of Boredom

Have Stories, Will Travel.