** As published on The Writer’s [Inner] Journey **
Here’s a prediction: The human race will evolve so that our chins become attached to our chests, for better viewing of our iPhones. We are a society increasingly obsessed with technology. We browse blogs while waiting for water to boil. We tweet from the toilet. We have no patience because we don’t have to; everything is available to us right when we want it. Being idle and still is no longer a sought-after state; instead, it means you don’t have the right gadgets. Many people are excited by this, but I am not one of them. I tell people, “I’m going to develop ADD” and they say, “That’s okay, we have drugs for that now.” I don’t think they get it though. For a writer, all this buzz is a constant threat. Every time I get into a story, I have to wage war against a number of potential distractions.
To be clear, I’m not like my grandmother, who refuses to own a computer and thinks that e-mail means there is a mail box attached to a machine and pieces of paper arrive in it, magically, in a very Jetsons-like manner. I have a computer. I have e-mail. Actually, I have three e-mail accounts. And these blogs. And a Facebook account. I maintain that I’ll never engage in Twitter, as I think it sounds like something kids did at raves in the nineties. I made the switch, begrudgingly, from cassette tapes to CDs, then accepted that my music would exist only on my computer. My car has GPS. I have a very meaningful relationship with the DVR. I have a cell phone, and I even send the occasional text message. I’m not anti-technology; I’m just anti-sadness, and seeing what technology has done to my fiction writing makes me sad.
My writing teachers used to call me prolific. I could whip up a short story in a day’s time. I could have forty pages done in a couple days, a book done in a month. I entered a zone when it was just me and the story. I was with the characters, wondering along with them what would happen next. I could not be interrupted.
Until I could.
Here’s how it goes when I sit to write now: I open the laptop and bring up my latest stuff. I start writing. Within about ten minutes, I encounter some minor writer’s block. It’s not really a block as much as it is a pause, my brain’s way to consider the story and think about where I want to take it. In this silent space, previously used for contemplation and meditation, I think, “Hm, maybe I’ll pop on over to weather.com and see what the forecast is.” Before I know it, I’m reading e-mails, and responding right away because I don’t like a full inbox. Then I spend the next hour pondering a witty Facebook status update. By the time I return to my manuscript, all my creative energy is gone.
And there we have it: The death of the book writer.
In some ways, it’s great that we have all this access. I don’t have to go to the library anymore to research; I can Google. However, too much access is just as detrimental to the creative process. There is this pressure to stay up to date with everything. After all, people give status updates while in labor on Facebook. I don’t want to miss this. I’ve adapted my writing style to fit this fast-paced madness. I type up blog posts (like this one), but what about long-form pieces? Modern reality is not really kind to long-form – reading or writing. The issue becomes not only whether or not people will be reading books, but whether or not people will be writing them.
Writing a novel takes consistent dedication. It demands unplugging from the world, quite literally, in a way that is becoming harder and harder to do. After all, to market ourselves as writers, to promote our careers, we have to answer e-mails, tweet, maintain Facebook pages and blogs, keep abreast of the latest industry happenings, browse the news sites for ideas. Is it truly necessary to unplug to be a successful novelist? Maybe the more important question is if it’s even possible. Or, furthermore, is it possible to stay plugged in and be a successful novelist?
Writing books has always required discipline, but in a world when free time is at a minimum and small chunks of time are the only chunks of time, writing books requires not only discipline, but giving the finger to the way society is evolving. The alternative would be not sleeping. I’ve considered this, but then remember I have a hard time staying alert and non-bitchy with less than eight hours of sleep. Of course, people say, “We have drugs for that now.”