Skip to main content

Writing in the times of Facebook


Do you know Felix Salmon? No, it is not a variety of fish with orange-red innards that is a delicacy in these parts.  Felix Salmon  blogs for Reuters on financial matters,  one of the few I admire for  clarity and judgement in the blogging world.
In one of his earlier blog posts which I had missed reading till recently, he has confirmed what I feared the most; that in internet sheer quantity beats quality.  Unlike the past when the newspapers appointed a battery of experienced journalists as sub-editors to re-work articles before they were sent to the print shop, the trend seems to be to ‘throw up’ more on the online format so that ‘more’ is shared and searched for; to hell with all aspects of good writing - accuracy, logic,  graceful turns of phrase, wisdom and insight, puns and punctuation.

When I see the quality of blogging in our mainline newspapers like Hindustan Times and Times of India or the quality of e-zines, this trend seems have caught on here as well.   Publishers seem to be running some kind of a sweatshop with young literature graduates grinding out blog after blog. And the editors seem to be holding the whip: “throw up more and more, quantity over quality”.
Not for them the old style of engaging the best of writers, spending on research and coming up with pieces that will stand the test of time.  The world of internet publishing seems to less tolerant of other alternatives, the market forces tend to drive out older options, whatever their continuing merits, to extinction.

Not that I claim that writers in the print media achieved good writing most of the time. Since even the aspiration can be exhausting, I would confess from personal experience, probably not many took to writing.  Now that a leading blogger has confessed that bad writing is inherent to the online world, I am inviting the readers to reflect upon the generally overlooked losses that the modern communication paradigm imposes.
I still remember the letters my father used to write to me in lovely style after I went to live in Chennai or the letters my Mama used to write to my mother, with vital insights into people and places long buried in their collective memory – not to mention the handwriting.  Now this form has already been lost to e-mail. I do not remember to have written a single letter by hand during the past 2 decades.
Many may feel it is a minor sacrifice when compared to the evident gains of cheap, easy and instantaneous global communication. Yet it would be ironic if, in our enthusiasm for diffusing our ideas as widely as possible using Facebook and BlogSpot, we were to commit overmuch to these transient supports of knowledge, wholly abandoning the proven methods of durability.
Let me rush to see to my Facebook page, another 50 posts might have appeared on my ‘Wall’ during the time I took to write this piece on a cold and grey Saturday afternoon here in Melbourne.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Washing Machine - Short Story by Sujatha

The maid had not turned up again today.  Her husband was immersed in the newspaper as usual.  Even the phone ringing at the most inconvenient moments __ when she was preparing the omelet for swetha, ironing her school uniforms or somebody knocking at the door, did not seem to have any effect on him. “It is for you”, she said. “Say I am not there”. “I am not used to starting the day with lies” “There is no auspicious time for lying, Savithri”, he said. There was again a knock at the door. He deigned to look who it was. It was the man who bought old newspapers.  “Newspaper Fellow”, he announced, reverting to bury his head into the papers. Everything had to revolve around her. “Not today”, she was speaking to the man at the door, “Had I not asked for your wife to come for work”. “She is already working in 6 other houses”, “might come from the first of next month after she gives up on one of these houses”. “First of next month?” How will I manage till then?” Savithri

RAT - Short Story by Asokamitran

Exora  Asokamitran recently passed away. He chose writing for a living and suffered the economic consequences of it.  Have you seen the Exora flower ?  When I was young , we had an Exora plant ( or bush ?)  near the steps at the front of the house.  If you pluck a few flowers with their long stems in tact from a bunch and reverse them and put the stems in the mouth and gently suck them by pressing your lip to the palate, you will get a fleeting taste of sweetness, of its nectar. .  Asokamitran handles subjects the same way.  His approach to the subject and writing style is as gentle as  the butterfly settling on a flower and the effect on the reader is just as subtle.  Not for him the the heavy handed stuff, not for him the harangue  Nobody captured  the ordinariness of life  like him. Nobody understood the mental make up of middle-lower middle class urban dweller like him.  He saw life as a progression of ordinary events and probably imputed no other higher motive to it. I wante

Chair - Story by Ki Rajanarayanan

How could you call a house without a chair a home? So it struck all of us in the house the same time. This issue was immediately placed on the agenda for family discussion. Just the day before we had a family friend visiting us. He was a sub-judge and as our luck would he have it, he came not dressed in Veshti and Shirt but fully suited and booted. All we had in our house was a three-legged stool, which was itself just three-fourth of a foot high. Our grandmother used to sit on it when she whipped curd. Since our grandmother was a little 'broad at the bottom' our grandfather had asked the carpenter to make it a little broader than usual. For want of any alternative we had requested his good self to take his seat on this three-legged affair. The sub-judge himself was a little thick-set; that caused him to place one hand on the edge of the stool before setting himself down on it . The problem with the stool was that if the weight fell on it not in line with