Writing: Changing Language, Changing Consciousness

I like to think of myself as a writer. In the course of a typical day, I will jot down to-do lists or copy notes during lectures, but when I think of the word "writing," what comes to mind is setting down a story on paper. When I think of writers, I think of authors penning novels or crafting poems, something permanent to be left behind for others to read. What stayed with me most to me after reading this article was the fact that writing did not always exist for this purpose.

Although somewhere in my subconscious I was aware that writing has not always existed for the purpose of creating works of fiction (especially given the relatively young age of the "novel"), the idea that writing wasn't always intended as a permanent means of recording information had never occurred to me. As Bernstein points out, in early Greek scripted writing, "The page is not the final destination but a preliminary stage, a prompt for final presentation elsewhere" (506). This distinction between these "holdover" writing practices and the more textual ones we are familiar with today is that, with our newer transcriptive practices, "the writing takes on the work of memory rather than being an aid to memory and this function is not compromised by writing that is difficult or impossible to memorize" (506). That is to say, once writing started being an end in and of itself, it did not need to be as lyrical as, say, Greek epics, and gradually shifted in form.

Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that it gradually broadened in form. For as Bernstein points out, "Alphabetic technology does not replace oral technology anymore than cars replace walking" (508). These older forms can exist alongside these newer possibilities, just as Bernstein notes on page 513. We still have performed poetry, alongside books, alongside digital animated texts. The birth of newer forms doesn't cause the death of older ones; instead, it marks the creation of new possibilities in writing.

These new possibilities seem to be the reason Bernstein advocates working with animated (electronic) text. Havelock and McLuhan, he notes, not only "draw attention to what it means to work within a medium, but also. . . acknowledge the value of using a medium to do what can only be done in that medium" (514). A work could be written in poetry or prose, read or recited, and it could be good; however, there may be a power to it that comes only when it is animated, only when the text flashes before the reader on a computer screen. That is to say, what we write is not limited by the technology and mediums available to us, but what we convey may be.

It is important to recognize that the purpose of writing has changed over the centuries and continues to today. Our human capacity for inventiveness has only opened the doors to new ways of expressing ourselves and our ideas, never limited us. As Bernstein says, "Poetry in a digital age can do more than simply echo the past with memorable phrases. It can also invent the present in a language never before heard" (516). Still, it is important to remember that this new medium, while preferable in some instances, may not be the best way of conveying one's message in every situation. I think this is the point I should try to hold onto most in the weeks to come – I can't just write something and animate it (or rather, I can, but it won't be as effective); what I write must be created with animation in mind, with the idea that it is something that would not be as powerful if printed statically piece of paper.