Have you tried turning it off and on again

For the first time in my life, the phrase "sun, sea and sand" has been swiftly followed by another phrase: "technology detox". Never have I felt such a need to disconnect. The irony of writing this on a blog to which I will share the link through a number of social networking sites is not lost on me. The disgustingly 'first-world problem' nature of this topic is also not lost on me. If you can help it, please don't judge. If you can't help it, then judge away; I'm already two steps ahead of you.

Over the last few months I've been increasingly aware of what's become a death grip on my iPhone. My love of books, pens and paper haven't protected me from slipping into what I vowed I'd never become: someone who feels the need to neurotically play with their phone, unconsciously swiping through apps and screens as if somewhere in between the neatly ordered folders lies the Holy Grail, covered in dust, lying next to a scribbled answer to world peace on the back of a receipt, a worryingly tantalising-looking year-old pizza slice, and the film the fourth Indiana Jones should have been. In meetings I've succumbed to a behaviour that again I always vowed never to adopt: checking my BackBerry for work emails whilst someone's talking to me. It's not just me either. I've noticed on the Tube that 70% of the people seem to be playing with a smart phone of some description. Seriously, have a look around you next time you're on public transport and count how many people are looking at the screen of a phone. In meetings the table is occupied by the blinking red lights of BlackBerries that just can't be left behind. A number of us appear to be orbiting around our phones rather than anchored within ourselves.

I don't have an issue with the technology or how people choose to use it. My job is all about helping a firm of lawyers understand how they can use social media tools in a business context and looking at how this intersects with the firm's culture. I'm a huge advocate of the Internet and social sites as learning tools, as invaluable ways of connecting people, and I love how smart phones have changed how we interact with, navigate, discover, and share the world around us. We've seen the power of it, for both good and bad. I know that it's just technology, and it's all about the motivations of the people that are using it. And I know of the fears around our 'always-on' culture and the arguments that it's rewiring the way we think and engage with one another. But it's certainly been a catalyst for changes in behaviour all around the world, supporting (and harming) a whole range of areas, from education to development to democracy.

But at a Social Business conference in 2012 — despite being hugely inspired by some truly mind-bending talks and it cementing that this is a field I'd like to forge a career in — there was a concept that struck home the level of our addiction: "the always addressable customer". This is someone who has multiple devices, all connected to the Internet, that they check frequently in multiple locations. Sound familiar? What are you reading this on, an iPhone, an iPad, a BlackBerry, a Macbook, laptop, desktop PC, some other device? Did you find your way to this post after it had been shared on Twitter or Facebook? Are you out and about, stuck on a train or bus, in your bedroom, at work?

I am that person. I can think of 5 devices I own/use that can be connected to the Internet in some way and allow me to share and find content (for the record: a Macbook, a netbook, an iPhone, a work BlackBerry and a Kindle. God help me, what have I become). I've lost count of the number of times I'll open up Twitter during the day just to see what's going on and whether any useful articles have been shared by those I follow, or unlock my phone and browse around with no real purpose or task in mind.

The things I've found and experiences I've had off the back of always being connected are countless and (nearly) all positive: a lovely summer festival in Hampstead I would otherwise not have known about, finding out about the Science Museum showing the last Dark Knight instalment on 20 July, discovering articles and tools that are invaluable for my work, nurturing professional relationships and friendships that may have otherwise faded away, opening up my mind and thinking to areas of learning I'd have otherwise never discovered, etc etc etc.

So I'm not saying we need to all turn our devices off and stop sharing. What I am saying is that I've forgotten what it feels like to not be connected, to not be contactable. To have some headspace to completely free my mind of distractions and totally immerse myself in the task at hand, whatever that may be. To truly enjoy wandering a city, or reading, or writing, or watching a film, or having a conversation with a friend, without feeling the need to check my phone every five minutes for phonecalls, texts, or some other notification. The freest I've ever felt was on a bus in Malta on my own, my friend having returned to our apartment an hour before. No-one knew where I was and my phone was deliberately switched off. It felt amazing. It felt calm and peaceful. It felt like the volume on all the background noise and buzz had been turned right down. No, it felt like it had been eliminated completely. On the Tube I've started to try and practice 'the art of doing nothing' every now and then, rather than always playing with my phone or reading. A few months back I had the revelation that playing the piano is easier if I actually concentrate on what it is that I'm playing, without letting my mind wander elsewhere. It sounds obvious, but it's easy to forget. The notes flow a little smoother, the melody comes a little easier, my fingers are suddenly more nimble. You feel connected to the music you're playing and only the music. It's the same if you're writing, or reading. Rather than dividing your attention, if you completely focus your mind onto what you're doing at any one time, it's suddenly so much easier, so much clearer. It's like a scene framed through a camera's viewfinder snapping into focus, or the clarity of vision once you've put your contact lenses in. Or finally hitting a radio station in amongst the white noise.

So as of Wednesday, I will be on a much-needed holiday. I'll be doing the normal: sun, sea and sand. I'll have the 'devices' that I normally take on holiday with me: iPhone, camera, Kindle (the BlackBerry is most definitely being left at home). But for the first time, I'll also be making a conscious effort to not be digitally connected. My iPhone will hopefully be in airplane mode for the majority of the time, used just for music. The various things that I've started writing are going to be printed off and I'll be working on them in one of my numerous notebooks with one of my numerous pens. The Kindle's 3G will be switched off, and is only a backup in case I finish my current book (The Age of Wonder by Richard Holmes. I can't recommend it enough). I'm hoping for early morning/late night walks by the beach that's a stone's throw from our villa. And more than anything I'm hoping to calm the constant whirring that goes on behind your eyes when you know you're connected. To switch off to switch on. To free up some space to muse and let the mind wander down whichever path it chooses to take. To become immersed in books, writing, sun, and good company. This is why I've resisted the urge to litter this post with hyperlinks, to put a relevant video at the end, to try not to add to whatever other distractions are trying to tug you away from finishing (if you've made it this far, well done and hello. How's it going?). The video I would have shared would have been 'Yelp: with apologies to Allen Ginsberg's "Howl"' if you have time to look it up on YouTube. Now, where did I put my phone, it's been at least ten minutes since I last checked it...

Shirley you can't be serious

Hands in the air if you’re a user of language.

If you’re not looking like a surrender monkey right now, arms flailing about, then you might want to take a seat. I’ve got some hard news to break to you.

We all use language. That’s right, even you, reading this sat there in your underwear in a technology-induced stupor. Oh wait no, that's me in the mirror. Ahem. Moving swiftly on. Whether we’re deaf, blind, or an animal that’s not only learnt how to read English but also how to operate a computer and navigate to this blog (if you’re the latter, get in touch. I have a business proposition for you); we all use some form of language to communicate to others, to externalise our internal worlds, and to shape our thoughts. There’s spoken language, body language, the facial expression of a dog that’s commandeered some kitty treats, sign language. Whether we’re conscious of it or not, all of us are communicating all the time, sending out signals about ourselves and what we’re feeling and thinking, whether there’s someone available to pick up and interpret those signals or not.

Now. Hands in the air if you’re a lover of language.

My arms were emphatically up there until I realised I’m incapable of typing with neither my toes nor my nose.  I’m talking about the written or spoken word here, as opposed to the intricate language of what our gestures, postures and philtrums say about us. And I’m definitely not talking about a love of language adopted by those that militantly oppose a culture that embraces ‘verbing’ (turning nouns into verbs, eg “I favourited an article” and “Google it”), or deplore the fact that the ‘the youth of today’ speak in a language that no-one over the age of 18 can understand.

Rather, I’m of the ilk (and hopefully you are too) that loves language precisely because it evolves, because of the way words can be woven together to form lyrical phrases that sound like music, because of how it can be used to express ideas and feelings.

Here’s an example of precisely what I mean. Last month my friend and I were playing top trumps with our levels of boredom. Mine was caused by a slight quarter-life crisis moment, whereas hers was due to the experience of having to vacuum some kamikaze peas from her freezer. My response to the banality of her situation was, “I bow in deference to the mundanity of your boredom.” And the improvisation of that little phrase and the way it flowed and sounded instantly cheered me up. Quarter-life crisis successfully, if only temporarily, averted. At work there’s a few of us that are constantly playing with the meaning and sound of words, it’s a well-used pastime in my family, and I’ve had various playful arguments with a number of friends about use of words and their meaning. Those same friends also write, and we often read each other’s work, commenting on passages, ideas and use of words that we particularly like or think could be improved. (A few of them have blogs, which I definitely recommend and can be found on the left-hand side of this page.)

When you’re reading, or listening to a song, or a speech, or writing, or just chatting with your friends, it’s those moments where you can’t help but applaud the use of language. Maybe the idea that’s been conveyed has been expressed in such a way that it’s made you smile. Maybe it’s a word you’ve not heard in ages that evokes particular nostalgic feelings.

I’ve read a few authors this year whose writing styles I love. They couldn’t be more different from one another. On the one hand we’ve got Oscar Wilde and F. Scott Fitzgerald. Both are self-indulgent in their use of language, using words and phrases that are ripe with description, poeticism, and tangents. I don’t think I’ve come across any writers today who write like those of the past, where meaning and form are so interwoven, where complex feelings and philosophies are veiled within the vocabulary selected. I love it. I wish I could not only write like that, but get away with writing like that. On the other hand we have George Orwell. Putting his novels to one side, I’ve read a few of his non-fictional works this year. His use of language sits in such stark contrast to Fitzgerald's and Wilde's. It’s simple, matter-of-fact, there are very few trills or flourishes. He has a set of rules for writing that were created in opposition to a trend in political writing in the ‘40s that he raged against. He loathed the style that favoured recycling of metaphors and the use of twenty words where two would do. As one of my brothers wrote last month, sometimes simplicity is best.

All three authors have their own particular styles and ways that they choose to use words. I respect all three, and all three have passages that I’ve come across that have made me pause with admiration and jealousy at how they’ve expressed themselves. Yes it’s the ideas and story that they’re composing that have struck a chord. But – a bit like my amateur phrase on boredom (seriously, go back and say it out loud) – there’s something about the way they pluck out their words and combine them. It’s their masterful use of the language that we all have at our disposal, and it evokes a simple love of the infinite number of ways that we can play with what’s essentially a finite number of words. 

The choice of these three authors is indicative of another facet of language that I love. Although it evolves over time, and the meaning of words change, we can appreciate use of language from the past. There was an excellent programme on ITV earlier this year called Lenny Henry: Finding Shakespeare where Henry spoke to a number of people to find out about their feelings towards good ol' Bill (*shudder* Apologies). Two of the best parts of the programme were a blind test of Shakespearean phrases against hip-hop lyrics, and a kids' workshop run by actor Adrian Lester. Henry had a difficult time guessing correctly what was Shakespeare and what was Snoop Dog, whilst the workshop got the kids rapping and acting out Shakespeare. Both exercises were a fantastic way of thinking through the Bard's use of language and showing that, although written centuries ago, we can still enjoy his choice of words.

This is love of the written word (I’m including speeches and songs in that group, as they’re initially refined through writing), but there’s an equal love of the use of language that comes out in conversation. As I said, quite a few of my friends and work colleagues banter purely about the use of language and words. It might be about taking particular words out of context to change their meaning, about x-rated double entendres, arguing about the meaning of a word. It’s always playful, always quick-witted. Trust me, anyone who refuses to argue about semantics is missing out.  

So yes, I’m a lover of language. I think it has to be allowed to evolve because the world around us evolves, and we evolve. How else can we fully express ourselves unless language adapts to both reflect and shape what we’re thinking? Why shouldn’t we play with words and create new ones where the old don’t suffice, don’t reflect how our culture has shifted? But on an even simpler level, we should appreciate the words, the phrases – whether carefully crafted or spontaneous – that flow, that make us pause at their brilliance, make us laugh in wonder at their existence. We all have the same building blocks at our disposal. As Orwell says in his rules, we shouldn’t slip into lazily using the same language that we’ve heard before but be playful in our originality, creative in how we use those words. 

Go on, what's your favourite phrase, your favourite word? Do you play with language or do you find yourself getting stuck using the same phrases? (If your hands have been in the air all this time, I suggest you put them down before you type your answer. Unless you can in fact type with your nose. In which case I have a separate but equally good business proposition for you too.)

Whilst you're having a think, I'm just going to have a watch of this video overlaid with a monologue from Stephen Fry on language. If you've got the time, maybe have a watch too.