How not to write in the 21st century.
by
I like to sit in Pages between classes and write poetry. I get a window-facing seat and a half-moon cookie, turn on some Metric or CocoRosie, and write about strippers, dead horses, or girls making love to the cosmos. I overuse words like “coruscate” and “serene.” But when the hour is up, I close my notebook and go to class. I don’t bother with a Blogspot and I don’t set my verses as my Facebook status.
A couple of weeks ago, a friend asked if she could borrow a pen — or if it was too sacred to lend because I’m a writer. Others poke fun at my regimental efforts with this creative outlet, as though by writing purely for my own sanity and not for recognition, I am wasting time.
I’ve observed other students clutching coffees and shamelessly promoting their Blogspots like Campus Crusade pushes Christ. They act as though writing, reading, and loving words aren’t enough; they need followers to justify their musings.
A very wise, very anonymous lecturer at the Technology, Entertainment and Design (TED) conference in February said this of anonymity: “We’re moving towards persistent identity, we’re moving towards a lack of privacy. We’re sacrificing a lot of that, and in doing so, we’re losing something valuable.”
Technology insists that we attribute everything we create. Facebook, Twitter, Formspring, Tumblr, YouTube, MySpace, Wordpress, Blogspot — each begs for our identity, image, likes and dislikes, dating interests, and favorite music. People’s lives have become works of literature, and in order to stand out, one has to demonstrate that they’re worth listening to. In effect, we’ve created a digital world full of Truman Capotes and Lord Byrons, mugging the camera and seeking attention to justify work.
The information age has diminished the beauty and simplicity of a single piece of work. Modern readers need context, scandal, and background. The age of Emily Dickinson sticking bits of genius into teacups has ended — and so has an essential aspect of writing.
I felt a surge of anticipation when J.D. Salinger died, the universal feeling of entitlement: now we can finally find out what he’s been keeping from us. But Salinger has contributed so much already. He’s done his societal duty. Let him keep his mystery and rest in peace.
If the ideal writer is not a recluse but a tabloid-gracing media whore dishing out prose like candy to children, then identity doesn’t even matter. Society has created these attention-seeking machines, and their words — which come from the same cogs and wires — mean nothing.
illustration by Mark Carey
