DEATH OF WRITING (# 74,944)

Google’s debut phone takes dictation. You talk, it writes. Clever huh. My fingers suddenly started asking me questions:

“Hey, we’re worried about our job. You gonna fire us?”

I couldn’t answer. Then the words themselves spoke out:

“We’d like to take voluntary redundancy. You won’t need us in a year or two. We’d like to cash in now, go on a cruise and swing with some numbers.”

So, this got me jumpy. Maybe we won’t write in the future. We’ll just speak like every other walking gobshite and hope to hell that it sounds good enough to read. But that threatens the very livelihood of reading. I mean, it’s such hard work. Why not just listen. Or maybe that’s asking too much of our ears. Shortcut the whole shebang and just jolt the central nervous system with a feeling. Yes, that’s it. We’ll all turn into telepathic jelly and wobble our species forward.

Time to drink the ink.

Comments

3 Responses to “DEATH OF WRITING (# 74,944)”

  1. Jo on February 3rd, 2010 2:45 pm

    love it!
    only just discovered your blog but it’s fab.

  2. Pete on February 3rd, 2010 11:46 pm

    Bless you from the fountains of Lourdes Jo. I loved our frantic last chat in the bar and was sorry to leave. We drew 4-4. Love to swap more stories. Is it pissing it down up there. Tis here Pete x

  3. Pete on February 3rd, 2010 11:55 pm

    Jo. I am a twat. I just realised it’s you Jo, not that Jo I met last week. What a double twat. What you two up to? Happy? Disillusioned? Drunk? Tell me however you like. x

Leave a Reply