Over spring break, I assumed one prevalent aim: to “unplug,” so to speak, as much as I was able. My ultimate goal became, quite simply, to embrace the newfound warmth this would bring me while trying to manage some calming reading and writing from a relatively disconnected stance. This was no easy feat, despite how effortless it may sound to others. Our social worlds are constantly abuzz, in direct relation to ever-changing industrial lives.

I was soon able to plunge headfirst into that reading list after all. Along the way, I stumbled across a blog post titled “The Modern Writer,” by Cristian Mihai. While the great majority of my literary endeavors were roughly related to neuroscience (e.g., the kind of volumes that “read like a textbook”), I willingly journeyed “East of Eden.” This classic Steinbeck novel wove a fabric of invariably beautiful, complex characterization and was truly an unforgettable read. Like Mihai, I too was struck by a particular passage in the epic piece that follows:

“Now I see. The word was timshel.”

“Timshel—and you said—”

“I said that word carried a man’s greatness if he wanted to take advantage of it.”

“It set him free,” said Lee. “It gave him the right to be a man, separate from every other man.”

“That’s lonely.”

“All great and precious things are lonely.”

This was stated in a succinct manner, allowing readers to draw their own conclusions. While, unmistakably, the maxim can correspond to many personal affairs, the execution of well-defined prose prior to and throughout the holiday break was at the forefront of my mind during my own evaluation. The ability to manipulate words for the purpose of conveying timeless truths is a lonely job. Perhaps this exact solitude is also a requirement.

The goal of creating some form of art largely depends upon separation from the outside world. In practical terms, internal focus is a necessity. Mihai muses that the isolated condition of any good writer is inexorable; he or she must put away the real world such that the world that’s being expressed or spun has enduring clarity. Make no mistake – real writing is a truly demanding process that involves extensive editing and the typical impetus of “hard work.” A much sought after talent, it is indeed far from smooth — irrespective of the splendor of the final product. I’m likewise inclined to believe that we are able to compare classic versus contemporary literary figures when we fully acknowledge the accuracy of Steinbeck’s aphorism.

How can we expect contemporary authors to achieve the same heights as classic authors, bearing in mind the explosion of social media and subsequent cognitive busyness? Psychological science theorizes that all human beings have certain cognitive loads, with specific attentional demands fluctuating from person to person. Constant connectedness is an undeniable distraction in almost all walks of life, albeit a both powerful and progressive tool. That said, I am one of many who recognize the fact that there is hardly such a thing anymore as a purely “private” life or self-contained interactions.

Modern writers now have the ability and tools to connect with readers in a myriad of ways that were once impossible. The age of technology has provided a fluid pathway to almost everything one can dream of via the delicate touch of a button. With few exceptions, rapid Internet speed, cellphone capability, durable e-readers and palm pilots are vital to life. It is no surprise that despair and feelings of profound loss swiftly follow any limitation on those items, even temporarily. In theory, this connectedness between The Modern Writer and his or her respective audience ought to bring about a significant increase in the quality of output. Why, then, am I so touched by the work of classic writers instead? The way in which historical literary giants such as John Steinbeck et al. so poignantly speak solidifies that they exist in a league of their own in the face of modern society.

It is easy to proclaim “nostalgia” without designating proper meaning to the word in this context. Classic writers desired to cultivate awareness from a more remote stance than contemporary writers. Similarly, men, women and children of modern times seek literature in a way that is similar to how they crave a sugar-high; intense desire exists principally for mere entertainment purposes. Analogous to the technological age, speed and efficiency has become the new “norm,” such that many desire to be spoon-fed a story with quick emotional and physiological reaction as opposed to having to intellectually probe deeply through the book entire. I’d be lying if I denied enjoyment of a good story, but I much prefer actual substance. I’d be remiss in not disclosing that I would pass on exploration of Suzanne Collins, if given the choice between hers or the work of John Steinbeck.