The Guardian has a story speculating on how changes in technology will affect the form of authors’ literary archives.
Used to be that authors would usually have a huge mound of paper for archivists to pore over (unless they destroyed them first). But now, many (probably most) authors write on computers, and in many cases the book never exists on paper until it comes off the printing press. So intermediate drafts, notes, and correspondence survive only if the author actively preserves them.
This is, of course, the same problem faced by archivists and historians across the board when dealing with digital information. Paper (at least, acid-free paper) will survive for centuries with even minimal care, and can be used easily by anyone who can read the language in which it is written. Digital formats, on the other hand, are perishable and require not just physical preservation, but also maintenance of both hardware and software, as well as thorough documentation of file formats (which is often hard to come by as software companies alter their products and deprecate earlier versions).
Personally, I do make some effort to maintain and regularly update my data. I keep multiple backups of everything, and I migrate all of it to new formats as they come along (currently, external hard drives). So I’m in little danger of losing photos, videos, MP3s, or my schoolwork, at least during my lifetime. And my oldest work–such as college papers from the late 1980′s–has been converted a couple of times already to new formats.
On the other hand, much of my recent stuff–such as this blog–resides somewhere online where I have only indirect control over it. Ditto for my calendar and email, which live deep in the bowels of Google. It’s possible to back them up, but it’s difficult and time-consuming enough that I haven’t yet gone to the trouble.
There’s also the question of whether anyone will care to look at my stuff. I have no children, so I’m not sure who I’d even leave it to. Historians are always interested in ephemera and might find mine interesting, if it survives–but I’m a nobody, so who knows. With a couple of billion people all producing data, historians and archivists will have plenty to deal with, and it’s likely that nobody will bother to preserve any but the most important ramblings very far into the future.
Of course, there have always been similar selection pressures on historical information, and what’s interesting to me is that the likelihood that info will be preserved is usually in direct proportion to the wealth and power of the person or people producing it.
As an example: one of my research interests is Gold Rush-era San Francisco. The city’s major newspaper at the time, the Alta California, is available in complete print runs at several libraries, in both print and on microfilm. However, there was also an important African-American paper, the Mirror of the Times, which has exactly two surviving issues. Similar disparities exist for other materials. So anyone researching San Francisco’s black community is at a serious disadvantage, as there was so little interest in preserving its history until very recently.
Much the same is true of other historical periods. VIPs of all stripes have no trouble ensuring that their info survives long after their departure, while the poor and unknown are usually not remembered by anyone but their families–and not for long even then. Anybody wanting to assemble this kind of information a century later will have to wade through fragmentary information in a variety of places, and will be lucky to find anything useful at all.
I expect that, in the end, the same kinds of selection pressures will exist for information that is born-digital. The wealthy and powerful have always been prominent in history, and will always be. The poor and unknown, on the other hand, will largely disappear from the record, simply because nobody will have the interest to preserve their data–unless storage becomes cheap and reliable enough, and file formats standardized enough, that all data will be stored and maintained automatically and indefinitely.
SF writer Charles Stross seems to think this will happen, and in the relatively near future; he gave an important talk about the possibility a couple of years ago:
This century we’re going to learn a lesson about what it means to be unable to forget anything. And it’s going to go on, and on. Barring a catastrophic universal collapse of human civilization — which I should note was widely predicted from August 1945 onward, and hasn’t happened yet — we’re going to be laying down memories in diamond that will outlast our bones, and our civilizations, and our languages. Sixty kilograms will handily sum up the total history of the human species, up to the year 2000. From then on … we still don’t need much storage, in bulk or mass terms. There’s no reason not to massively replicate it and ensure that it survives into the deep future.
But even if this rosy prediction turns out to be correct–and that we’re able to develop search algorithms that can make this mass of data useful–will anyone care to look? Will your life, or mine, be interesting enough to some future historian to make it worth her while to dig through it?
