The Printer v. the Papyrii

To continue my musing on technology:

My aunt would not use e-mail until about five years ago. Her rationale? Not fear that a supercomputer in the Netherlands was tracing her e-mails. No, she was a writer.

When I say writer, I don't mean that she was an author in the traditional sense, but that she involved in two art forms that I fear are in jeopardy with the advent of e-mail and blogs; namely journals and letters.

People have all but stopped writing letters. I can't think of the last time I received a hand written letter from someone other than my aunt or someone in jail. Point of fact, a few years ago, the French were so concerned about the impact of e-mail that their culture ministers demanded it be dressed up as "courrier électronique" to make it more classy. It was seen as a threat to society. (And before you get onto the French/Freedom Fry thing, you might recall that they won the Revolutionary War for us and gave us the Statue of Liberty, so there, and that's coming through my gritted Kraut teeth...)

Now, I know that it is nice to use a computer for the mass Christmas letter, etc. but you know, there was a time when people would receive hand written replies from folks, even actors, authors, and politicians. Wow, could you imagine? A letter form say, Babe Ruth, ol' Clive Staples, or Abe Lincoln? Way cooler than a MySpace comment or a signed photo.

Speaking of Abraham Lincoln, one of his lasting legacies was his reputation as a prolific writer, especially of letters. You might recall the one that was read at the beginning of the film Saving Private Ryan, "I cannot assuage your anguish... your sacrifice upon the altar of freedom..." WOW. That sure has more punch to it than, "TTYL BFF". By the way, Lincoln also wrote a drawer or more full of angry letters to people like George Meade; the guy that could have ended the Civil War years earlier if he had pressed his advantage at Gettysburg, that were never sent. He just needed to get it off his chest. A good practice I might add.

There is something cathartic about sitting down with a pen, paper, and a cup of caffeine and pouring your heart out. Which brings me to the next endangered art. You see, my aunt also gave me a journal.

There are times in life where the only 'person' you can talk to is God. Other times, it is your journal. There are nights when I can't sleep until I write. Days that I can't work until I write (like today) and beyond that do you think blogs will last forever? One day, when their commercial viability has passed, sites like MySpace, Xanga, and yes, even the Google's beloved Blogger will be shut down. Their server farms could be damaged, virus ridden, or someone could spill their latte on the mainframe. Why does this matter? Because I believe that our letters and journals are our history.

In other words, I fear that if we are not careful, there will be a generation whose only history will be what CNN (gasp) and Fox news (shudder) sound-byte for our grandkids. What we thought, dreamed, hoped for, could be lost in a sea of ones and zeros.

Just some thoughts.

E-mail me for my address if you are interested.

End of line.

Rev.