Writing as an art form is something so rarely seen, produced, created, or desired it seems in our 21st century world. This makes me sad. I'll tell you why. You see, I love writing. Well, I used to love writing. I was forever with a pen in my hand and my trusty 'ThinkPad'. This was my book, of plain pages, which harboured random, passing snippets of thoughts or ideas, poetry and doodles, quotes from books or friends, or a note to a memory otherwise forgotten. Every year from the age of eighteen until 23 I'd buy a new ThinkPad as a birthday present to myself. Having been buried among box after box of many house moves, I've never really unpacked them and looked through. So I have no recollection of any of the words or pictures in them. What I do remember though, is years of pen making contact with paper and creating, capturing moments and thoughts, the movement of my hand as it slid across pages. The rustling, brushing sounds which echoed in otherwise a silent room. I remember the smell of the ink, the flattened tip of my index finger as standard.
Over the years writing became a chore rather than a pleasure. It was synonymous with volume, quantity, content, purpose. It needed to be fast, legible and be able to be reproduced. So words were typed, at speed, with little connection felt between my fingers and the pixels which ran along the screen. The words lost the connection which brought them to life. Although the words were meaningful and significant, they lacked the vigour that physically, directly producing them would have provided. Since then, writing in any format has been something only visited when needed - lists, notes, greetings cards and so on. And otherwise digital. Somehow impermanent and whitewashed almost immediately with the movement of social media updates.
Despite my love for words, whether literary or linguistic, I've neglected to foster it over the last five years or so. I've tried half hearted attempts at blogging, short stories, poetry, songwriting and more. But almost all of that had been on screen. The art of writing for me, is not contained only in the semantics and syntax, but in the physical production of the words. The nuances and unique flare found in an individuals handwriting. This is why I am sad. There's a quality to writing which is rapidly being lost and forgotten to all but young children who are taught to write for a future which may not require the skill at all. It's ironic really.
Over the years writing became a chore rather than a pleasure. It was synonymous with volume, quantity, content, purpose. It needed to be fast, legible and be able to be reproduced. So words were typed, at speed, with little connection felt between my fingers and the pixels which ran along the screen. The words lost the connection which brought them to life. Although the words were meaningful and significant, they lacked the vigour that physically, directly producing them would have provided. Since then, writing in any format has been something only visited when needed - lists, notes, greetings cards and so on. And otherwise digital. Somehow impermanent and whitewashed almost immediately with the movement of social media updates.
Despite my love for words, whether literary or linguistic, I've neglected to foster it over the last five years or so. I've tried half hearted attempts at blogging, short stories, poetry, songwriting and more. But almost all of that had been on screen. The art of writing for me, is not contained only in the semantics and syntax, but in the physical production of the words. The nuances and unique flare found in an individuals handwriting. This is why I am sad. There's a quality to writing which is rapidly being lost and forgotten to all but young children who are taught to write for a future which may not require the skill at all. It's ironic really.
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