Tolkien Had a Pipe. I Have a Plugin

 

Writing in the Age of Algorithms

Tolkien leaned back in his chair, pipe in hand, smoke curling like Elvish script into the air. He had time to think, to wonder, to stitch entire mythologies with threads of ancient languages and lived sorrow.

Me? I lean forward, hunched over a glowing rectangle, wondering if my blog post will be read by people or just sorted, ranked, and judged by an algorithm that only cares about "engagement."

Their world gave them different distractions. Ours gives us SEO.

They had Oxford and exile. We have notifications and dopamine loops.

They wrote for eternity. We write for the timeline.

But here's what I'm learning: Tolkien wasn't immune to his era's noise. He faced war, academic squabbles, doubt that gnawed at his faith. The difference wasn't that his world was silent. The difference was what he chose to defend and what he surrendered to.

So the real question isn't whether to unplug entirely. It's whether I can write with depth while remaining in this world. Can I refuse what the algorithm demands without refusing connection altogether? Can I honor the timeline without letting it devour my attention?

And yet, despite the plugins and pop-ups, the noise and analytics, the yearning is still the same: To make meaning. To wrestle with beauty, suffering, and truth. To create something that lasts, even in a world that scrolls too fast to notice.

So maybe the plugin isn't the enemy. It's just a tool, like Tolkien's pipe or Dostoyevsky's ink-stained hands. What matters is what passes through us into the page.

AI might autocomplete my sentences. But it doesn't complete me. Only reading, prayer, pain, silence, and joy can do that.

I may never write like Tolkien. But maybe if I'm more intentional about my attention, if I carve out space for thinking rather than just reacting, I might, for a fleeting moment, touch the stillness he once knew.

And from there, maybe the words will come.