This article is written by a student writer from the Her Campus at Gettysburg chapter.
With this article, I hope not to suggest myself as either a rookie or expert in the school of psychology, but I do have a question that I need to explore and am inviting all of you to explore with me; are telephones killing the writer in all of us?
Let me begin with a bit of context. A fate encounter in Los Angeles with a Gettysburg alumna turned into a stroll to the oceanside Barnes and Noble. She recommended that I purchase and read Letters to a Young Poet, a translated collection of letters between the modernist poet (and novelist), Rainer Maria Rilke, and a nineteen year old aspiring writer called Franz Kappus. In 1902, Kappus wrote to Rilke, unsatisfied with his career pursuits, hoping to become an effective writer. Rilke responds passionately. His replies are rich with advice that is presented with the poetic intensity that his works possess. I’d recommend this collection to anyone looking to rediscover their literary voice… or even just their inner sense of self. I can hear you thinking, “Alright, cool. What does this have to do with texting?”
In Rilke’s first letter he suggests to Kappus, “Ask yourself at your most silent hour of the night: must I write?”
And so, I asked myself this very question. As I answered I felt humiliated by my own entrapment in the technological web that the world has woven me into.
Yes, at my most silent hours I toss and turn and quake. I grow anxious about tomorrow and dwell on yesterday and reimagine conversations from earlier that day, good or bad. Instead of picking up a journal as my grandmother or mother would have at this age, I unlock my cell phone and spill out the emotions a text to my boyfriend or friend. Don’t you? Furthermore, in the middle of the night I see more incoming outcries from my beloved friends than I would on a sunny afternoon.
Imagine if instead of hypnotizing ourselves by scrolling through feeds and sending poorly articulated samples of these nightly emotions, we wrote poems. Imagine if we turned our pain into the pain of fictional characters. Instead of telling our girlfriend or boyfriend how lonely we were, what if we showed our notebooks and used the loneliness to create a magical, therapeutic piece for the world to cherish– for us to cherish.
The pain we feel at night disappears into an upward spiral of nothingness that we rarely scroll to retrieve. The potential is lost, and nobody is helped.
Certainly, I recognize the importance of communication. Reaching out in pain is no different than reaching out with a dream of becoming a better writer. We need help to overcome difficult circumstances and that is okay. Still, I fear that on the opposing side of this notion, we are becoming a race that cannot physically achieve self reliance. I wonder whether reaching into ourselves to dissect the turmoil is exactly what we need to grow through trying times. If we must ask for help, are we even capable of writing a page-long letter describing our needs?
One of Rilke’s concluding statements encompasses this beautifully, “I merely advise you to keep on growing quietly and seriously throughout your development; you cannot disturb it more violently than when you look outside and expect an answer from outside to questions only your innermost felling at its most silent hour can perhaps answer.” (Rilke, 1903).
Think about it.