It’s weird that I’m writing this column. I mean, I do write—or attempt to write—a column every other week, but for this one I’m actually using a pencil and loose-leaf notebook paper.
It’s pretty strange. I don’t think I’ve handwritten something this long since high school. You know, when we overachievers had to write those pesky and ultimately useless in-class essays back in 11th grade as practice for the A.P. English exam. You see, the only things that I’ve actually written down recently are my midterms and my physics notes. Most of my class notes have degenerated into peripheral Word documents, punctured with holes caused by frequent Facebook and Twitter updating.
Now I’m sitting on the shore of Summersville Lake, W.Va., filled with endorphins after hiking out a couple of miles for some spectacular rock climbing. The sun is shining and the water glistens as I move my pencil. A faint breeze blows, and my notebook paper rustles to the rhythm of the transitioning green to orange to red leaves, as if with pleasure. Suddenly, a wasp lands on the edge of the paper, stinger positioned aggressively. I run, screaming and cowering, several meters across the shoreline. Nature has its drawbacks.
I feel as if this experience—writing with only a gorgeous sunny sky, pristine autumn trees and fresh, cool air to distract me—is surreal, as if I’m living in a pleasant dream. But now, as I put my ideas on paper, I wonder if this life is more real than my Duke one. I have no gleaming lights of my laptop or Facebook, Twitter or Gmail updates to distract me. I’m just myself, one with my pencil and paper, absorbed in writing, nature and reflection.
I’m forced to really write now. As I write, I notice a whole new slew of affairs in play. For one, my handwriting is so sloppy! I’ve never really focused on writing this long, and it makes me concentrate on my atrocious penmanship. So used to the clickety-clack of the keyboard, my once-pristine high school handwriting has disintegrated into a scarcely legible chicken scratch. My progress, as I painstakingly write down each word, is so much slower than typing.
Yet there’s something so organic about this process. Each letter I put down has its own unique personality, embroidered in its construction, that reflects so many things—style, attention, precision, motivation. By handwriting this column, I mold a document that no one else could create.
In a world governed by standards and cohesiveness, this is quite refreshing. As students, we are encouraged to choose the safe solution—the double-spaced, one-inch margin, MLA-citation style, 12-point Times New Roman paper. Otherwise, our work somehow becomes illegible and irrevelant. Few teachers let us create a document that reflects our personality. But each student is different. The sheer act of writing—producing a document with our own penmanship—highlights that difference between every student and gives each piece its own unique personality.
And yet, as I sit here, I still feel annoyed. I miss technology; I miss it badly. I yearn for the ease of typing, the clickety-clack of my keyboard. I want Facebook and Twitter and Stumbleupon windows to distract me as I scramble this column together, trying to write as quickly as I can while retaining legibility. I don’t want to deal with these peeving, stupid things—like actually thinking about spelling, or writing down words, or memorizing, or calculating things—I want it all done at the drop of a hat, like I can do on my computer.
I’ll get my wish, sort of. In order to submit this column, I’ll ultimately have to type it out on a computer and edit it, and ultimately someone will publish it in the newspaper in the same style and layout as all the others. But then I’ll wonder—how much of the creativity in the process of writing will be lost by its unity with the rest of the paper? Yet, had I used the Internet as a distraction, how much inspiration would I have gained?
Technology has definitely allowed us tremendous insights in production and research by cutting down on menial, rote tasks. But look in any Duke classroom—everyone uses their laptops religiously, but most of their efforts are focused on Gmail chats and Facebook updates, rather than on the note taking that predominates in laptop-free classes. And yet, if these laptops were actually used to take notes, note taking would become a much easier and smoother endeavor than handwriting them. Still, this element of distraction might be a small price to pay for the ease and innovation of technology.
Nevertheless, as I reflect on writing this column and type it on the computer now, I wonder if the trade-off is worth it.
Indu Ramesh is a Trinity junior. Her column runs every other Wednesday.
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