Slow Writing, Fast Typing
I just tried writing some characters by hand. Not only was the writing painfully slow, but it took considerable mental effort to form each character in my mind. Compared to typing on a computer, the difference in speed was striking.
Having not written by hand for so long, this contrast startled me. My hands trembled like those of an elderly person as I wrote, my eyes fixed on the movement, while my mind raced ahead impatiently. The words I wanted to express had already cycled through my thoughts several times before I could finish writing even the first few characters.
I’m not certain, but I feel there’s something more natural about the deliberate pace of handwriting that aligns with how our brains are meant to work. In contrast, the lightning-fast pinyin input method allows us to process multiple lines at once, our thoughts racing ahead at breakneck speed, never pausing for breath. As a result, people have grown to dismiss handwriting, no longer giving it a chance. Once we leave school and enter adulthood, pen and paper rarely grace our desks anymore, save for the occasional quick note - gone are the days of lengthy handwritten texts.
This inherently natural slowness has crystallized over time into something precious - handwritten letters and greeting cards that find their way into everyone’s cherished keepsake boxes. Though the writing may fade and the paper yellow with age, the tactile quality and emotional resonance remain unchanged.
This is the unique magic of genuine handwriting.
The Depths of Deep
There was Cal’s Deep Work, and then came David’s Depth Year. It reminds me of city dwellers who purchase high-end outdoor gear they rarely need. When my partner questioned this, I explained it as aspirational - though we haven’t reached that level, simply owning and wearing such gear makes us feel closer to embodying those capabilities, making our aspirations feel slightly more tangible.
The concept of “Deep” fascinates me, though it remains elusive. I find myself drawn to related topics, casually exploring their theories while imagining myself achieving such profound focus in my own work. Even now, I haven’t reached what I consider a truly deep state, which is why I’m captivated when watching my partner work with intense concentration. In those moments, it’s as if the room’s energy gravitates toward her; at peak times, it’s like the universe itself channels its force through her. She simply immerses herself in her work, naturally embodying this state without conscious effort. There’s something beautifully primal and pure about it that I find mesmerizing.
My partner is a freediver, where depth is literally the goal. This physical manifestation of depth often connects in my mind with these abstract concepts of deep work and focus. When I attempt to delve deep into a task, rather than achieving true immersion, my wandering thoughts often pull me back to the surface of reality, reminding me of the task’s importance and my fear of breaking concentration. It’s like performing precise, repetitive work - each motion requires momentum, accuracy, and patience. One moment of distraction can throw everything off balance. I might start fully engaged, my mind either completely focused or peacefully empty, but then larger thoughts emerge, breaking my rhythm. Instead of remaining immersed, I become anxious about losing focus, worried about maintaining the flow. This anxiety amplifies itself, like a cascade of disruption, until I feel completely disconnected, floating in a void of lost concentration.
Beyond the physical and temporal aspects of depth, there’s also a mental dimension. I experience this when encountering half-forgotten vocabulary, attempting coding problems I vaguely remember, or revisiting books that exist as shadows in my memory. These encounters feel like grasping at gossamer threads of memory - delicate connections that might break at any moment. There’s a slight apprehension, mixed with frustration at the lack of clarity. It’s not the clean, satisfying feeling of complete understanding, but rather a resistant kind of engagement. While these moments sometimes make me hesitate, I usually push through, forcing myself to grasp these nebulous concepts until they become clear and defined. Overcoming this resistance brings its own unique satisfaction and sense of achievement.
Perhaps there’s wisdom in this approach - taking things slowly and diving deep.
