Writing in the Age of Twitter

“Hey Old Man, take a look at my life, I’m a lot like you.  I need someone to love me the whole day through….” – Neil Young

Got a long email today inveighing against the passing along of chain e-mails.  Wasn’t that a chain e-mail too?  As we transition to the ones and zeroes of electronic communication, shouldn’t we use the word “contact” instead of text, call, e-mail or write.   There are just too many ways to reach people nowadays.  Writing in the age of Twitter forces one to be succinct, pithy even.  When’s the last time you clicked the “Read More” link?  If what you said is not the most recent thing in your recipient’s inbox or feed – they are not going to scroll to the bottom, or even 10 messages down.  You gotta get your point across in the subject line.  Famous first lines of novels – the Bulwer Lytton contest, the winners of which I could look up right now and include examples in my morning journal, but then that would be giving in to the art of distraction.  I will work on brief and deep essays, like this one, flex my publishing muscle – build up an inventory of pithiness, as it were. 

Will finish my letter to John C today and mail it – makes me feel closer to this bright capable man who cannot speak on the phone – amend that – cannot be understood when speaking by most people.  He types out replies, I hand write missives.  We both have time to think between words, like everybody used to.  Best source for historical accuracy is the letters and papers composed by the people living it to the people they loved.  Sometimes, it’s just business letters, but these letters give brawn and sinew to the dull recitiation of events only some folks deem important.

Drat, now I’m hot and sweaty and I just want to walk around in circles.  When you’re brilliant, you need medications to deal with all the stupid majority.  When you’re spiritual – say even just kind – you need chemical assistance to tamp down your inner homicidal maniac.  Goddess damned MS Word just capitalized Maniac for me – who the hell do they think they are?  How much did they pay for their poetic license and who was the corrupt issuing agency?

Published by Ms. C. G. Tripp

Catherine G. Tripp, Writer/Investor a lifelong mix. Left brain and right brain battle for dominance. I wrote the marketing materials for my mortgage brokerage, had a personal finance column at Examiner.com, wrote essays, short stories and poems published in school papers and magazines then literary journals. If my writings were a color, they would be yellow, bright as sunlight, highlighting the salient portions, not obscuring the past but deconstructing air brushed stories, finding humor and courage in the unloved corners.

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