I spend most nights sitting on my balcony, in deep contemplation, as the sun dips behind the condominium-heavy skyline of downtown Toronto. As my fingers tap on my laptop keys, sounding like the pitter-pattering of ungroomed paws over wooden floors, and my story unfolds as if enacted like a moving picture in my mind, I feel almost like a transcript writer – logging entirely real moments as they occur in my head. It got me to thinking the other night about how writing has changed over time, and how the tools at an authors (often quite literal) fingertips are so very different to those of yesteryear. I wrote this haiku about my thoughts.
Panel, white, backlight,
Pixel dots create my work,
I don’t miss a quill.
(Photo – Eli Woodbine, Toronto, 2016)