Every Sunday morning, somewhere in between a bubbling Bialetti and poached eggs on toast, I read ‘Het Parool’. Amsterdam’s only local newspaper, with its eye-pleasing design and unapologetic Dutch delivery, was born in the prime of the WWII resistance and hasn’t lost its individualistic spirit. More relic than reality, the paper feeds me something other than just news: it feeds me words. High volumes of them. It serves me well-written sentences that require—no, demand attention.
We read few good words nowadays. Sure, we spend a few lost hours on a book we’ve vigorously pledged to consume, but when the novelty of our inspiration wears off, we’re once again stuck with the digital leftovers. Fleeting information, discarded with the click of a mouse. Ill-considered, caramel-coated sentences that offer instant gratification.
Now one might argue this is a generational given. A statement with which I will agree, albeit it kicking and screaming. There is just one problem: I make a living writing. When I write, I do so with conviction and consideration. I handle each sentence like it exists on its own. A poem, if you will, which should flow and sing as your inner voice recites it. The soothing cadence of a well-written sentence is a magical thing. It gives it life, context and meaning.
We are collectively falling victim to this malnourishing diet. A frightening thought that leaves me with a burning question: who are the custodians of language? Who will take on the thankless work of insisting that words still hold value, however tenacious the opposition? Attention spans keep shrinking, and clickbait is what we're served at every meal. Who will do what good writing actually demands, knowing the effort will most likely be wasted on their readers?
I have decided that, in the most marginal of ways, that gatekeeper is me. This is why my words will always aim to inspire. Not merely because there is information to be found in them, but because language is a valuable currency. One that demands attention.
We read few good words nowadays. Sure, we spend a few lost hours on a book we’ve vigorously pledged to consume, but when the novelty of our inspiration wears off, we’re once again stuck with the digital leftovers. Fleeting information, discarded with the click of a mouse. Ill-considered, caramel-coated sentences that offer instant gratification.
Now one might argue this is a generational given. A statement with which I will agree, albeit it kicking and screaming. There is just one problem: I make a living writing. When I write, I do so with conviction and consideration. I handle each sentence like it exists on its own. A poem, if you will, which should flow and sing as your inner voice recites it. The soothing cadence of a well-written sentence is a magical thing. It gives it life, context and meaning.
We are collectively falling victim to this malnourishing diet. A frightening thought that leaves me with a burning question: who are the custodians of language? Who will take on the thankless work of insisting that words still hold value, however tenacious the opposition? Attention spans keep shrinking, and clickbait is what we're served at every meal. Who will do what good writing actually demands, knowing the effort will most likely be wasted on their readers?
I have decided that, in the most marginal of ways, that gatekeeper is me. This is why my words will always aim to inspire. Not merely because there is information to be found in them, but because language is a valuable currency. One that demands attention.
