Garcia Marquez said it'd take him six years to write a book in his old typewriter; and that using a computer had cut that effort in half. It'd take him three years to write a book that, in the past, took him twice as much. Look at the quality of his works prior to the introduction of a computer to his craft. Technological advancements may accelerate the fluidity and pace of the narrative, but it may have in the process lost the intricate erred details and revealing mistakes that productivity rendered useless. Marquez decried his humble beginnings in attesting that there was no need for hardship in order to make good literature, and I, of course, paraphrase. But fame and fortune did have an impact on his narrative, never quite nearing the heights of his seminal work, One Hundred Years of Solitude. Perhaps Cervantes would've found comfort and ease in narrative a gutless trap. Not one to adhere wholeheartedly to any field of thought, so perhaps making things far easier dulled his edge,
True, the work becomes easier. With computers, you don't worry about making mistakes; errors can be easily resolved without resorting to toss the page out and starting anew.
I, too, started writing when typewriters were still the way to write, since not everyone had a computer. It was a rumor going around about how computers will one day change the world, but the personal tech of the day consisted of classics like the walk-man in the eighties, the CD portable player in the nineties. Computers were far too expensive still, and in no way, shape or form would anyone have conceived of, no reason to suspect, that one day in the near future, say ten, fifteen years ahead, computers would be so commonplace. I wasn't until the until the latter part of the nineties that the prices had dropped to under a thousand dollars that everyone around began to buy one and since it was the thing to have in order to enjoy in the privacy of your own home and not having to await your turn at the library, it seemed like the time was right. I resisted initially, and still kept my old typewriter in a closet somewhere for years to come, just in case things didn't work out; the superstitious bug of fitting in made me invest in one. I kept on and once it caught on, and I saw just how marvelous the whole experience was, the immersive component, though not as user-friendly as it would later on get to be, once the price dropped, it became the thing to have if you were to enjoy this whole other purpose of having a computer: the internet. There was no going back. For one thing is to have a marvelous piece of tech that would help you redact, create and envision a world of limitless possibilities like the one embodied in a personal computer. It was like the dog of the future, an unconditional and devoted companion whom unlike a pet could get you access to all the ramified iterations of the self. In a window, like a world waiting to be explored at your fingertips, you could work on a project, read an interesting article, until it naturally evolved to a single swipe right of your thumb on the surface of a computer that fits in the palm of your hand (hence the word digital) to connect you with a potential mate.
In the early nineties, it was a status symbol; in the mid nineties, not so much so. So, definitely, by the late nineties, virtually everyone either had one or had access to it. Typewriters weren't cheap, either but they had a narrower audience. The computer served as a typewriter, among oh so many other tings. There wasn't a brand new model of typewriter introduced every year to replace your old typewriter: once you invested in one, it cemented your serious intention to become a writer. And writers are superstitious creatures, on top of cheap, so it's no wonder that they probably held on to those mechanical turtles for centuries to come.
It wasn't until it dawned on us 70's kids, mid to late nineties, that computers were here to stay. No matter your craft, a computer had you covered. There was nothing that could rival the personal computer, and for a good decade there. we thought it'd last. Then came the advent of smartphones. I had amassed close to a thousand music albums in compact disc form during that time, only to find that everything was to evaporate into a digital cloud. The times we live in are changing at dizzying speeds.
True, the work becomes easier. With computers, you don't worry about making mistakes; errors can be easily resolved without resorting to toss the page out and starting anew.
I, too, started writing when typewriters were still the way to write, since not everyone had a computer. It was a rumor going around about how computers will one day change the world, but the personal tech of the day consisted of classics like the walk-man in the eighties, the CD portable player in the nineties. Computers were far too expensive still, and in no way, shape or form would anyone have conceived of, no reason to suspect, that one day in the near future, say ten, fifteen years ahead, computers would be so commonplace. I wasn't until the until the latter part of the nineties that the prices had dropped to under a thousand dollars that everyone around began to buy one and since it was the thing to have in order to enjoy in the privacy of your own home and not having to await your turn at the library, it seemed like the time was right. I resisted initially, and still kept my old typewriter in a closet somewhere for years to come, just in case things didn't work out; the superstitious bug of fitting in made me invest in one. I kept on and once it caught on, and I saw just how marvelous the whole experience was, the immersive component, though not as user-friendly as it would later on get to be, once the price dropped, it became the thing to have if you were to enjoy this whole other purpose of having a computer: the internet. There was no going back. For one thing is to have a marvelous piece of tech that would help you redact, create and envision a world of limitless possibilities like the one embodied in a personal computer. It was like the dog of the future, an unconditional and devoted companion whom unlike a pet could get you access to all the ramified iterations of the self. In a window, like a world waiting to be explored at your fingertips, you could work on a project, read an interesting article, until it naturally evolved to a single swipe right of your thumb on the surface of a computer that fits in the palm of your hand (hence the word digital) to connect you with a potential mate.
In the early nineties, it was a status symbol; in the mid nineties, not so much so. So, definitely, by the late nineties, virtually everyone either had one or had access to it. Typewriters weren't cheap, either but they had a narrower audience. The computer served as a typewriter, among oh so many other tings. There wasn't a brand new model of typewriter introduced every year to replace your old typewriter: once you invested in one, it cemented your serious intention to become a writer. And writers are superstitious creatures, on top of cheap, so it's no wonder that they probably held on to those mechanical turtles for centuries to come.
It wasn't until it dawned on us 70's kids, mid to late nineties, that computers were here to stay. No matter your craft, a computer had you covered. There was nothing that could rival the personal computer, and for a good decade there. we thought it'd last. Then came the advent of smartphones. I had amassed close to a thousand music albums in compact disc form during that time, only to find that everything was to evaporate into a digital cloud. The times we live in are changing at dizzying speeds.
I, too, was perhaps a better a writer back then. Authors were writing for posterity; nowadays, most write for immediate consumption, in real time. We cannot wait, and so it became self-evident to it was necessary to pause, take a look back and forth from a centered state of mind which could only come about way of quietude, leisure, contemplation, temperance, relaxation, decelerating the cardiac rhythm thru right breathing. No, it's not a lesson I speak of, just my own practice. Undoubtedly, there'll be teachers and disciples.
For a master never really stops being a disciple. Followers are like shadows, unavoidable byproducts of moving forward, never back. Half-mute, and vocal only at the right moment, you find silence so eloquent; solitude, so full of familiarity and warmth. For one thing is solitude and another loneliness. Those who bear the sting of heartache may abhor any form of isolation and instead opt for escapism in friends, places, family. No one ever speaks of heartache, and of course we know that the hurt is nothing more than a vital organ to pump blood throughout the body. But who hasn't been heartbroken by a lover, or deceived by a friend? How, then, is it best to deal with the pain of, say, rejection? Realize, for example, that there is no such thing. Again, there's no denying suffering, it is everywhere you look. The problem is not pain or, worse, the lack thereof; the problem is, acquiring healthy coping mechanisms.
I guess thinkers in the past aimed at pointing out what was wrong and who's fault it was.
In abolishing the fear of failure the mind may find itself too relaxed, more linearly fluid, unbounded by former limitations to the storytelling craft. And I suspect the cumbersome apparatus of typewriting, its limitations, contributed to a pessimistic narrative.
Perhaps we are far less pessimistic since our load was eased by technological advancements.
It's not just the typewriter; it facilitates writing, yeah but so? Writing in these not-so-ideal archaic machines had been a dream come true -typewriters being relatively a new invention, too. It wasn't until the end of the twentieth centuries that typewriters were invented. So, a revolutionary artifact the mechanical keys corresponding to each letter in the alphabet, the enchanting sound of clicking away. You had to be instructed on how to use a typewriter, and it helped if you typed more words per second. It even became a profession that now has gone extinct. Ah, the times we live in.
For a master never really stops being a disciple. Followers are like shadows, unavoidable byproducts of moving forward, never back. Half-mute, and vocal only at the right moment, you find silence so eloquent; solitude, so full of familiarity and warmth. For one thing is solitude and another loneliness. Those who bear the sting of heartache may abhor any form of isolation and instead opt for escapism in friends, places, family. No one ever speaks of heartache, and of course we know that the hurt is nothing more than a vital organ to pump blood throughout the body. But who hasn't been heartbroken by a lover, or deceived by a friend? How, then, is it best to deal with the pain of, say, rejection? Realize, for example, that there is no such thing. Again, there's no denying suffering, it is everywhere you look. The problem is not pain or, worse, the lack thereof; the problem is, acquiring healthy coping mechanisms.
I guess thinkers in the past aimed at pointing out what was wrong and who's fault it was.
In abolishing the fear of failure the mind may find itself too relaxed, more linearly fluid, unbounded by former limitations to the storytelling craft. And I suspect the cumbersome apparatus of typewriting, its limitations, contributed to a pessimistic narrative.
Perhaps we are far less pessimistic since our load was eased by technological advancements.
It's not just the typewriter; it facilitates writing, yeah but so? Writing in these not-so-ideal archaic machines had been a dream come true -typewriters being relatively a new invention, too. It wasn't until the end of the twentieth centuries that typewriters were invented. So, a revolutionary artifact the mechanical keys corresponding to each letter in the alphabet, the enchanting sound of clicking away. You had to be instructed on how to use a typewriter, and it helped if you typed more words per second. It even became a profession that now has gone extinct. Ah, the times we live in.
Also, improvements in the way of life and the advent of a computerized world not only go hand in hand; it was only a matter of time before knotting the dots. It's how information works, it is all interconnected and if there's a field of study that surpasses the threshold of trials and contemplation is that of technology. Experimentation and deliverance go hand in hand. If our politics worked at the same technological pace, the liberated world we'd live in! It's not a chimera: technology is progressive. No one wants yesterday's iPhone.
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