Stephen Lewis: In faint praise of Luddism

Feb. 28—Luddites, supposed followers of General Ned Ludd, a fabricated name for their movement, were skillful cloth manufacture artisans in England, who in the early 1800s resorted to violence against the newly developed mechanized looms that threatened their livelihood. The term has evolved to denote individuals who resist technological advancement for any reason, often having nothing to do with economic stress.

Although I am much too fond of the newest gadget to be a candidate for such a designation, as a writer I appreciate how technology in my field giveth and taketh away.

I began my writing career on a typewriter, a device that had transitioned from the manual on which I had self-taught myself to electric versions. What either machine offered was something now missing from contemporary keyboards.

Sound.

The clatter of those machines underscored that work, real work, was being done. As I type on my computer keyboard, I only hear muffled noise. It doesn't sound like I am doing much, that writing is as easy as tying one's shoes, or buttering a piece of toast. And the muffled sound does not screen out external stimuli as the clatter does. That is not necessarily a good thing, as the work of writing requires concentration.

The even more ancient technology, tracking back to quill pens, is the tactile task of forming letters and inscribing them on paper, a much slower process of producing words but one that more fully engages the writer's attention to the detail of forming each letter. I still have a fountain pen, with which I inscribe my signature on important documents, such as a book contract, although that act is being replaced by e-signing.

Contemporary devices also insist on being helpful in non-helpful ways. These devices underscore what they think is a mistake, or even more rudely autocorrect or auto complete words that were neither incorrect, on the one hand, nor intended on the other. Those impositions lead to writing mistakes the writer did not make and might not even notice. They also tempt a writer to be less thoughtful about word choice, the process serious writers cherish.

Perhaps the most important unintended and unfortunate consequence of the facility of producing writing these days, though, is the corresponding ease of transmission.

Years ago, I was going to dash off an angry letter to an individual who was important to my professional career. Today, I might bang out such an ill-advised communication on my keyboard and before cooling down hit the send button.

Back then, I had to first feed a piece of paper into my typewriter, type my angry words, address an envelope on the typewriter, sign and fold the paper into the envelope, affix a stamp to the envelope, and then place the envelope into a mail slot.

All of these steps slowed the process. I had just put a stamp on the envelope when I had a conversation with a good friend. He commiserated with my anger but counseled me to sleep on my reply to give my head a chance to reconsider.

Was the cause of my anger justified? Had there been a misunderstanding? Had I tried hard enough to see the other's point of view? And, finally, and most importantly, had I considered the consequences of what in hindsight might appear to have been a startlingly misguided overreaction that would endanger my standing with an important individual?

I took my friend's advice. Slept on it. I woke up and tore the letter in half. All it cost me was the price of a stamp.

That's enough of an argument to offer a faint word of praise to Luddism.

Stephen Lewis, originally from Brooklyn, New York is a retired college English professor and writer whose novels include three mysteries set in northern Michigan. Contact stevelew@charter.net.