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Man Digs a Hole and Blames the Internet.

(This is by Línda. Transmitted to you through Lily’s blog. #Thanks Lily)

It was a dark and windy Saturday night as I strutted down the streets of Allston toward the Two Towers of Stuvi 1—my home away from reality. Every step I took propelled  my thumping brain into a labyrinth of ideas to which the twitch to write promptly answered and reared it’s beautiful head. Before long I had swiped into the building. Unlocked my apartment door. Ripped off all my clothes. Washed my face. And made myself a, slightly burnt, english muffin covered in butter. As I climbed into bed with my lukewarm glass of water—which was immensely disappointing—I turned on my red bed lamp, opened my computer, opened a new Word document, and placed the tips of my fingers upon the dimly lit keys admiring all the potential I was holding there–still–as–a–dead–bird.


Black Out

Lights Up.

Suddenly I glanced at the clock: it was 3:36 am. I had opened my computer at 1:10 am. Where had the time gone?! I check my word document.


I had written nothing.



What had I been doing this whole time? Where did I go? WHERE WAS I?

Now, the internet is a scary thing for many reasons. Many, MANY reasons. But one of the things that scares me the most is my ability to seemingly black out and have chucks of my time robbed.

Now I understand that the internet is a tool that allows itself to be used as the user wishes to use it but I don’t understand how by merely checking on Facebook for 2 minutes it turns into hours and hours of scrolling. My mind becomes numb and I loose all interest in the impulse that made me open my computer in the first place. Surely I am not alone in any lack of will power against the beloved monster of information and entertainment we call the Internet.

So, I wish to ask a question.
I am begging for advice.

How do we, as modern day writers, maintain a healthy relationship with the Internet—and technology in general—when our predisposition is to be as informed as possible yet maintain a sense of duty to our profession which requires purposeful concentration? 

We use our computer for everything.
My computer—at least—is as seductive as Edmund the bastard when it comes to all the distractions it can produce.
I want to be able to walk from a fruitful shaken not stirred night and write my little thumping heart out without exploding from my seemingly instinctive need to be informed and stimulated by this blinding screen.

Especially when our flowers of thought are barely beginning to bloom at 2 am.


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