On Writing Craft, Creativity &
Inspiration
by Alexander Slagg
Digital Fatigue
At times it’s hard to believe there was life before the Internet. How in the world did people shop, communicate with, or date one another? Experts trumpet the Internet as the next plateau of evolution in human communication, akin to Gutenberg’s invention of the printing press back somewhere around 1439. That’s super. And it may even be true.
The development of the Internet
goes hand-in-hand with the digitization of media: music, films, television,
letters, books, newspapers—you name it. All of the primary channels for sharing
information, how we tell stories and relate experiences with one another, have
been digitized. I’m not so sure that is super.
I have days upon days worth of
digital music available on my computer’s hard drive, not to mention streaming
music options, any time I want it. My Netflix movie queue often extends down
and around the block, typically topping out at around 90 movies waiting to be
viewed. I have thousands of digital photos of my kids. All in all, I have
enough digital content on my computer to last me several months of doing
nothing more than viewing or listening to it. Safe to say, I would not be at a
loss for entertainment if stranded on a desert island for an extended period of
time.
The problematic term here for
me is content. And that’s often how
we talk about all of this digital stuff—it’s content. It’s no longer a single
great photo or a memorable book. It’s a collection of stuff contained somewhere
that needs to be sorted through. These numerous options for experiencing art—songs,
pictures, films, books—all start to blur together on the digital screen. They
lose their individual value.
I probably watch two to three
movies a week. I can’t recall the plots of most of them. And it’s not because
they’re awful movies. I haven’t even seen Avatar.
I have such a quantity of art ready to view whenever I want that these films no
longer stand out as individual works of art. Same with music. I loved Erykah
Badu’s “Window Seat” and downloaded the entire album it’s from. My most recent
review of the number of plays it’s had in iTunes? Two. Because I have so many songs
available to listen to, this gem gets lost in the digital pile.
I think part of the problem
here is the easy availability of this content—sorry, this art. It’s too easy
and too cheap to access it. The result? These artistic experiences lose their
value—and I’m not even talking about monetary value, which is another issue
with digital formats. I’m talking about artistic value, the ability of a work
of art to move your emotions, to spark a fire inside you, or crack open your
understanding of the universe.
I think it’s similar to the
concept of museum fatigue. Repeated
exposures to works of art can’t help but lessen their impact over the course of
a museum exhibit. When something becomes routine, it loses its uniqueness and
ability to move us.
Incidentally, it’s also the
same dynamic that drug addicts experience. Repeatedly getting high builds up a
tolerance in the addict’s body. The same amount of drug no longer provides the
desired effect. The high has become routine. Though the stakes are not nearly
as high, desire for a deep artistic experience, over and over again, is the
same thing.
To recover from this
undiagnosed case of digital fatigue, I am prescribing myself a regiment of
non-computer activities: gardening, cooking meals, playing board games with my
kids—and most therapeutic of all, cracking open an old-fashioned paper-and-ink book.
My summer read is going to be Cormac McCarthy’s The Road.
Touching
on various aspects of the writing process, Reflections from the Well is more
than a rote column, it’s a literary lounge where writers and other creators are
invited to share their own experiences. Share
your comments with Alex for possible inclusion on the LWN blog or in his next
reflection at aslagg@literarywritersnetwork.org.
