The Problem with Periods in Text Messaging

You ever know someone who is a genuine person, except when it comes to text messages? A friend you get along fantastically well with in person, through emails, on Facebook, and so on  but for some reason, when it comes to text messaging, they always seem like they have a really negative attitude? As if the act of texting makes them abrupt, disingenuous, and callous?

Well, the answer might be due to his little mark here:

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It might seem hard to believe, but the most innocuous punctuation mark of all is the enemy of friendly text message communication. While a lack of periods would make books, blogs, articles, and even emails almost totally unreadable, the use of periods in shorter form text messages actually does a person no favors.

In text messages, ending your text with a full stop/period comes off as cold, ill-tempered, or passive aggressive. Thanks to years of instant messaging services, sentences (or sometimes parts of sentences, or ideas) in a chat window are generally expected to end with a line break, as this makes a clear enough distinction between one sentence and the next. In this way, texting is more similar to poetry than a letter. For example:

It’s important to remember that every punctuation mark matters

But form varies depending on the medium

And texts shouldn’t end on a full stop

This is necessary, to convey proper meaning

Or you risk being misintepreted

And that’s no use to anyone

So pay attention

Above, the line break does the work of breaking apart ideas. So the use of a period in a text seems as if you’re using it for a reason, and thus makes the recipient of your text question why you used it, if only subconsciously. And usually, this usage of a period is interpreted negatively.

Now, this doesn’t mean periods are going the way of the dinosaur. In this blog, for example, periods are needed in order to break apart sentences, because all of these sentences are put together in a body of text. In texting, for better or worse, this is not the case, due to the fact that people have been trained on instant messenger services for years to expect line breaks instead of periods. Of course, whether you use full stops or not is up to you, but if one is going to use texts to begin with, one should understand the psychology behind them  so one isn’t surprised when they get less-than-cheerful results.

ufo

According to a study by NPR, if you end your text message with a full stop, people will think that you’re purposely being insincere. It seems intentional. NPR’s analysis is that because texting is so conversational, it functions by rules more like an actual conversation than emails; emails require more time and investment, which is why they more closely resemble snail mail letters, and tend to have more thought put into them. Texting, on the other hand, is like chatting; in real life conversations, people subconsciously analyze one another’s body language, tone, and expressions to interpret meaning, and in texts, people tend to do the same thing. But in texting, there’s no physical evidence to survey, so people instead subconsciously analyze grammar, word choice, and punctuation. Which means that a period, while almost invisible in an email, is very noticeable at the end of a text. Most of the time, it’s interpreted as a sign of passive aggressiveness.

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Now, on a personal note, I’ll admit that I’m not a big fan of texting to begin with. Actually, I do whatever I can to avoid it. Don’t get me wrong. Texting has its uses. When it comes to simple, short messages, such as needing to confirm a location or wanting to let someone know an arrival time or address, texting is great. It’s also nice for leaving people complimentary notes, along the lines of a shorter-form email: for example, after seeing an old friend, it’s nice to shoot them a text that says “Awesome to see you, man!” as a small little token of appreciation.

But for conversations that require a lot of back and forth correspondence? No thanks. For debates or arguments? Hell no, that should either be in person or in a phone call, where I can at least get some sense of the human being on the other end of the cell phone; really, that defines exactly why I dislike texting, because most of human communication isn’t just in the content of a message. Physical cues, vocal inflections, deeper meanings, all of that tends to get lost in the sometimes hostile world of Textland™.

Unlike emails, blogs, and comments, texting is immediate, less deliberate, and under the same pressures as regular conversation; you can take a day to respond to an email, but you can’t take more than an hour to respond to a text. Texting, as opposed to doing a phone call, makes it easier to send stressful messages, because you don’t have to see or hear a human being on the other end. But losing that human connection, painful as real human interactions may sometimes be, is inherently dangerous. Texting bypasses everything that makes actual human conversation painful, awkward, and anxiety-inducing… but texting also bypasses everything that makes actual human conversation meaningful.

But texting has its uses. In this new, digital, globalized age, it’s here to stay, and there’s no point pretending that it’s going to go away: instead, we should focus on refining it, making it better, and understanding why so many are drawn to it. Texting has become a useful communication tool for a lot of people, and it’s important to recognize that. But as a new form of communication, it’s also important to understand the rules of it before breaking them, and thus causing misunderstandings.

So, regarding periods…

Bottom line, when it comes to texts

We should end them

Like this

And people won’t misinterpret our intentions

Thanks for reading! Comment below, and let’s hear your thoughts.

 

 

A slice of Aronofsky’s “Pi”

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Truth is a complicated, abstract idea, and truth seekers come in all forms. Some search for truth in religion. Others do it through art. Some seek to find the truth within numbers.

Max Cohen, the protagonist of Darren Aronofsky’s debut film, Pi, is a man of the latter category. “One, mathematics is the language of nature,” he states. “Two, everything around us can be represented and understood through numbers.” Despite the urgings of his mentor, Sol, Max is a man driven by a quest for meaning – a man driven to the point of obsession, obsession with the very numbers he seeks the answer from, obsession that leads to hallucinations, paranoia and, by the startling conclusion of the film, a complete mental breakdown.

Pi is a dark, intelligent psychological thriller, with a tone and style somewhere between David Lynch’s Eraserhead and Rod Serling’s Twilight Zone. It’s a daring film that asks a profound question. A question that has haunted men for millennia, and that we may never find an easy answer to:

Is there meaning in life, nature and the universe—a pattern that brings it all together, perhaps? Or is everything simply chaos?

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Pi , like much of Aronofsky’s work (including the recent Noah) is an intense examination of a man’s search for God. It’s about a quest for truth. And like many similar quests in fiction – from Victor Frankenstein’s monster to Johnny Truant’s book obsession in Mark Z. Danielewski’s House of Leaves – the road that Max goes on is one fraught with deadly ramifications upon his psychological state, finally leading to a shocking ending that’s not easily forgotten.

Though Aronofsky has directed many films since 1998, Pi remains– to me, at least – his most fascinating work.

 

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Confronting the Self-Cannibalistic Creative Monster

So, before we get to the main subject of this post, let’s do a quick update: my first experience at Necon this past weekend was amazing.  Immediately upon driving down to Rhode Island and entering the doors of the convention center, I was bombarded by a truly astounding amount of friendliness, lively conversation, interesting fiction and remarkable artwork. As far as fiction cons go, Necon truly is one of a kind.

I won’t go into too much detail right now, as another website has asked me to do a write-up about my Necon experience (probably later this week), so I’m going to save most of my thoughts and recollections for that. For now, though, let me just say that Necon truly is an exceptional gathering of creative minds, getting together and openly exchanging thoughts, ideas, ridiculous jokes–and, of course, plenty of coffee and booze.  I’m definitely planning on a return trip.

Photograph taken by Jason Harris.

Photograph from Necon 33, taken by Jason Harris.

Now, since we’re already on the topic of creative writers, writing, fiction and so on (which just goes to prove the unfortunate stereotype about us writers having this exhausting need to talk about that goddamn writing business all the time), let’s take a moment to discuss something that all writers are far too familiar with:

The writing process.

Okay, fellow writers, let’s get honest.  I’m going to make a horrible confession.  I hear a voice in my head.  A (usually) small voice, but a dark, morose, scathing one that pops up from time to time.  Tell me if this sounds familiar:

“Oh, oh, oh!  Hey, you so-called writer!  Let me tell you, dear fellow/madam, this story you’re currently working on, this story you’ve poured your blood, guts and other sensitive organs into…well, it sucks!  Forget all the great things people have told you about your talent, your story is a complete waste of time.  In fact, everything you’ve ever written sucks, and all those ‘amazing’ story ideas in your head…well, you’re simply not capable of writing them.  You might as well give up now.  Now that I, the voice of the truth, have spoken, it’s time to give up on writing and go ahead and get a new job as a desk clerk, a banker or something serious like that, ya old potatah!”

Ideally, one would imagine this voice sounding a great deal like Albert Finney in the classic 1970 version of Scrooge.

Ideally, one would imagine this voice sounding a great deal like Albert Finney’s version of Scrooge. 

I’m betting that we all know that voice, all too well—and not just the writers among us either, but also the artists, musicians and all other creative types.  That voice is the bane of all creative minds, the horrible curse of self-loathing that our muses have bestowed upon us; personally, for the sake of this article, I’m going to name that voice the Self-Cannibalistic Creative Monster.

The Self-Cannibalistic Creative Monster is something that almost all creative minds struggle with, and it’s likely the cause of many, many failed careers; it’s a terrifying demon that has stalled many aspiring writers, breaking them down with anxiety, self-consciousness and/or the dreaded “writer’s block,” to the point where these would-be-creators give up on their dreams.

One of Kurt Vonnegut's many self-portraits.

One of Kurt Vonnegut’s many self-portraits.

“We have to continually be jumping off cliffs and developing our wings on the way down.”

– Kurt Vonnegut

While people may identity the Creative Monster by a myriad of different names, some more irreverent than others, familiarity with this demon is unanimous.  The topic of how a creative mind can possibly “get rid of” this voice is something that many fellow writers have discussed with me, especially those aspiring beginners who are just now considering writing their first novel.  In regards to that question, my answer is this:

No, you’ll never be free of your inner self-cannibal. But, with a little willpower, you can make it quiet down and mind its own business.

If not Scrooge, it's entirely possible that  your Creative Monster might more closely resemble this guy.

If not Scrooge, it’s entirely possible that your Creative Monster might have a closer resemblance to this guy.

That’s right.  There is no miracle cure.  The dreaded autocannibal will always be there, and it will always try to torture you; you can’t get rid of it.  But if you push forward anyway – if you block out the Creative Monster and refuse to listen to its mocking cries—you do, through sheer force of will, learn methods to deal with it, and you can overcome its influence.

First of all, in order to neutralize the Self-Cannibalistic Creative Monster’s power, we need to recognize that it’s not useful.  Now that we’ve identified that horrible voice in our head with a name, here’s the important thing to realize about that voice; even though our intuitive tendency is to believe that this voice is here to “help us,” or that it’s the “voice of reason” and that it exists only to make us better creators, that belief is in fact a complete misconception.  Yes, looking at one’s own work with a hard, critical eye is good, important and healthy…but in contrast, brutally decimating one’s own ego is NOT.  When we find ourselves doing the latter, it’s important that we recognize that this, right here, is the voice of the Creative Monster – and it’s even more important that we firmly recognize the fact that this monster never says anything worthwhile.  Nothing.  Nada.  In fact, its mocking voice really should be completely ignored, altogether.

This raises a dilemma, which we’ll now return to: isn’t self-criticism useful?  And how can we tell the difference between positive self-criticism and negative self-cannibalism? After all, if we, as writers (though again, this applies to any creative field) just thought everything we wrote was amazing and utterly flawless, we’d be delusional – and it’d make for some terrible terrible writing. We’d never improve our skills, never sharpen our tools, and never actually push ourselves to achieve the great writing we’re capable of.

Isn’t it important to see the flaws in one’s own work?   The answer is yes, but there’s an important difference here; positive self-criticism is constructive.  Unlike negative self-cannibalism, positive self-criticism builds towards improvement; it looks at the foundation of a work, takes what works, throws out the rest and then confidently seeks to improve what was there before.  Negative self-cannibalism, on the other hand, is deconstructive.  This self-cannibalism is like a person who simply blows up the entire building and then despairs over his or her supposed inability to ever create quality work.  Here, let me highlight the difference:

  • Negative self-cannibalism: “Okay, this isn’t working.  This piece has problems here, here…God, and here too! Damn it! I’ve totally failed at what I was trying to do.  It’s fucking terrible.  I need to give up, there’s no way I’ll ever be able to write this correctly.”
  • Positive self-criticism: “Okay, this piece isn’t working, it has too many problems, and I know I can do so, so much better.  I’m going to take another look at this, throw out the bad parts and further develop what DOES work. I need to refocus, reorient and keep trying until this piece really shines.”
That's the spirit!

That’s the spirit!

One of these voices is ambitious – but also quite honest.  It’s the voice of someone who’s not afraid to criticize his/her own work, but is determined to make it better.  In contrast, the other voice is ridiculously defeatist.  Both voices recognize the flaws in the writer’s work, but one of these is actually helping, and the other voice is simply a bully, kicking the writer when he/she is already down.

So really, the solution is as simple as this: as creators, we should ignore the Self-Cannibalistic Creative Monster.  It has nothing worthwhile to say, and nothing it ever does will actually help us.  Its only purpose is to destroy the creator’s hopes and dreams; it has no interest in making us better creators. Instead, we should passionately believe in our dreams, and we should use that passion to reconstruct our flawed works until they become as perfect as humanly possible.

Yes, one should be aware enough to see the flaws in one’s work, but one should also be honest enough to see the good qualities, as well.

Be ambitious enough to push through those flaws, correct them and move on.  Believe in the message of your story – believe in your ability to tell that story – because if you don’t believe in it, no one else will.

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Now, the reason I’ve named the entity/voice/demon described in this blog, the reason I’ve referred to it by a silly moniker like the “Self-Cannibalistic Creative Monster,” is because doing so allows me to externalize that voice.  It allows me to think of that voice as a separate entity from myself, instead of deceptively believing that it’s “the real me,” or the “voice of truth.”  By doing this – by seeing the self-cannibalistic voice as another person – it allows one to see how ridiculous and unlikable the Self-Cannibalistic Creative Monster really is.  Really, when it comes down to it, the Creative Monster is a very small, solipsistic and irritating character; he’s certainly not someone I’d ever want to have a beer with.  I’m going to close here with a quote by Mark Twain – a quote that, once we’ve externalized the self-cannibalistic voice and decided to view it as a separate person, really gets to the heart of the matter:

marksam

“Keep away from people who try to belittle your ambitions. Small people always do that, but the really great ones make you feel that you, too, can become great.”

-Mark Twain

And now, with that said, I’m going to finish this blog, drink another cup of steaming hot coffee and get to work on some damn writing.  And if the Self-Cannibalistic Creative Monster doesn’t like it, well…too bad.

-Nicholas Conley