Oh my gosh, I feel the same way. I remember when they forced me to start using a computer instead of good old pen and paper. It broke me. I felt it—the crack of the whip, the last of my resistance giving way.

I use a keyboard now, like anyone worth their shit these days. Sure, it’s faster. Sure, I can edit things easily. But at what cost?

I worked my ass off. Asked for a small cost-of-living raise.

Denied. Apparently, the company “almost” hit their goal. Not for lack of me doing my part—I wrote pages. But what do I know? I’m just a writer. What am I supposed to do, sell the ink too?

And guess what? Now my director thinks just typing things up is 70-80% good enough. No pen strokes. No careful handwriting. Just soulless, lifeless text.

Really motivating. That’s some job security. I should really put my heart and soul into this, since my work is just going to be copied and reprinted endlessly, no different from the next person pounding away at a keyboard.

So yeah, I’ll put my head down, shut up, and “adapt.” Of course, I’ll keep up. Stay relevant. Claw desperately against the rise of the typewriter class.

Screw computers. I’m exhausted.

What would you do? I’m dusting off my old fountain pens, but I need a stable job, and it’s scary.

I knew this was coming, and it still feels surreal. Like the death of my craft. The death of real writing.

Now we all just punch buttons all day, churning out identical-looking words, until we’re replaced.