sudo nano ~/.manifesto
notes on writing within digital infrastructures
Writing is a beautiful thing. Through writing we refine our understanding of ourselves and our environment, whether it be through fiction, poetry, or essay. In turn, reading what other people have written enlarges our world, informing us of the multitudes of subjectivities that inhabit our neighbourhood, our city, and our planet, aiding us in thinking about our relationships with each other.
Yet, there is something else that profoundly influences how we write and how we read, and that is the tools that we use to do it. It is time to talk about infrastructure.
The term infrastructure is used to denote everything that supports a given process, and what supports writing and reading has unrecognisably changed with the advent of personal computers since the eighties. New information technology and ubiquitous computing have permeated society on every level, and it is not crazy to say that if the internet or our devices stopped working tomorrow, the world would grind to a halt. Considering the extent to which the digital realm has entered our daily lives, our relations to others, and our work, it is impossible that it hasn't affected how we write, what we write and how we share it.
Even if you write poetry in your notebook and read it on stage or print it into a zine to distribute it on the street corner, there is, unfortunately, no escaping the entanglement with digital infrastructures. You might have read some poetry on the internet that has inspired you. Or you might have been influenced by poetry you found in a bookshop abroad that you found on the internet and just had to visit. You might have looked up a word or two in an online dictionary, or sent one of your poems - written for an old friend abroad - through text message. You might have found the open mic through social media, very probably most people in the audience have.
Writers would rather think about anything else than the mundane digital infrastructures that make their writing possible. Many writers might avoid any mention of digital experience in their poetry or fiction, in the believe that it might distract from or disrupt an unmediated and authentic exploration of feeling; yet today, it is precisely the absence of the digital as a theme in writing that must immediately be suspect of insincerity.
For most writers, especially for journalists, researchers and essayists, but also for fiction writers, writing on the computer is almost inescapable. Almost everyone uses autocorrect tools, many use grammar aids, and some might even, afraid to admit it, use large language models to test ideas and refine their writing. Researching is highly digitalised, with the internet as a main source for references and inspiration. Sharing this writing happens through online magazines, emailing with publishers, or posting on blogs, perhaps combined with posting and updating an audience through social media channels. Even though print will never die for the tactile pleasure of reading a physical work and the craftsmanship that can be involved, the reality these days is that virtually all printed text is digital until the very last step in the production process - and most texts will never become physical at all.
So what is the problem?
What is urgent today, is to consider, as writers, our entanglement in digital infrastructures that are highly politically contested. Social media platforms, search engines, commercial software, electronic devices, and large language models have become the basis on which a few companies have consolidated unprecedented wealth and geopolitical power. This is not only something for policy advisors to deal with; writing shapes worlds, and writers can and should do their part in imagining and building a relationship to digital infrastructure that is not so shameful that it should be omitted from literature altogether.
Beyond the level of content, writer communities should come together to discuss tactics. How to prevent our work from being illegally scraped? How do we, as writers, come to terms with the unavoidable prevalence of texts produced or co-produced by machine intelligence? How do we stop our reliance on unpredictable and unethical platforms to share our work and get people to an event? What skills do we lack, with whom can we team up?
This new infrastructural intimacy can be channeled to create new modes of expression. With more knowledge and control of our tools, we might create more space for computational forms, collaborative writing or other forms besides the confessional, linear, minimalist writing that has been so prevalent. Together with coders and tinkerers, writers can use the protean qualities of digital systems to its fullest potential.
Sudo nano was founded to kickstart this conversation in Amsterdam through publishing, event programming, and community organising on the intersection of writing and alternative digital futures. Writing is beautiful, and it is powerful. Its contributions to the collective imaginary broaden what we see as possible in the future. Sudo nano was started from the hope that through a communal effort in critical writing, writers can fight against digital tyranny, build towards digital self-governance and, while were at it, explore what it means to be alive today.
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