The Art of Leaving Well Alone: Why Simpler Times Had It Right

Do you ever find yourself staring at a blinking LED on a piece of "smart" technology, wondering exactly when the world decided that everything needed to be so complicated?

I was sitting at my desk just this week, wrestling with a brand-new, high-speed internet router that refused to cooperate. My old one sat quietly in the corner—unobtrusive and, most importantly, functional. But according to my service provider, it was time for an "upgrade." Apparently, I needed the latest model to keep up with the demands of the modern world.

Why? I have absolutely no idea.

The old router streamed films, handled video calls, and sent my manuscripts off to editors without complaint. Yet here I am, after visits from two separate engineers, both of whom stood in my hallway scratching their heads and turning the device off and on again—the classic IT solution that feels more like a prayer than a science—before leaving with a vague promise to "run diagnostics."

Whatever that means.

It sounds suspiciously like the digital equivalent of, "I'll check the back room for you," which we all know is retail shorthand for, "I have no idea what's going on."

The Lost Era of Ink and Intuition

It makes me miss the days when pen and paper ruled the world. We lived in simpler times then—times that required little more than common sense and a decent fountain pen. Back then, if something wasn't broken, the generally accepted wisdom was simple: don't touch it.

There was a quiet dignity to a finished manuscript typed on a clunky typewriter or written by hand. You didn't have to worry about software updates, cloud synchronisation, or the existential dread of a "critical error" appearing just as inspiration struck. You simply wrote. When the page was full, you turned to the next one.

It was a slower process, perhaps, but a wonderfully tangible one.

Today, we're obsessed with optimisation. We update our phones, laptops, smart fridges, and software, often sacrificing reliability for features we never asked for and scarcely understand. We've convinced ourselves that "new" automatically means "better," when quite often it simply means "more complicated."

The Wisdom of Less

This obsession with upgrades has even found its way into my life as a writer.

Not long ago, I submitted a draft to an editor, feeling rather proud of a particularly flowery paragraph. In my mind, it was the literary equivalent of a cathedral—ornate, impressive, and impossible to ignore.

He sent it back with a single note:

"Less is more."

Naturally, I was offended.

I'd spent ages constructing that paragraph. Every adjective had been carefully selected. Every flourish had been lovingly placed.

But while waiting for my router to stop flashing its menacing red warning light, I took another look. I stripped away the unnecessary words. I removed the clutter. I let the sentence breathe.

The editor was right.

By saying less, I had actually said more.

Seeking the "Off" Switch

There is a lesson here, I think.

Whether we're writers, engineers, or simply people trying to get an internet connection long enough to read the morning news, we could all benefit from embracing the art of leaving things alone.

Technology is wonderful. I'm grateful for the ability to send an article across the globe in seconds. But progress shouldn't be treated as a compulsory treadmill. Sometimes a router that works is better than a router that's "smart." Sometimes a simple sentence is more powerful than a complicated one.

We're so busy running diagnostics on our lives—optimising our productivity, our health, and our gadgets—that we risk breaking things that were working perfectly well in the first place.

Next time you feel the urge to upgrade something, pause for a moment and ask yourself: is it actually broken, or is it simply not shiny enough?

If it's the latter, maybe step away from the update button, put down the screwdriver, and return to the basics.

As for me, I'm going to find a pen and a piece of paper. If my router wants to spend the afternoon running diagnostics on itself, it's welcome to do so in silence.

I won't be checking on it.

For now, I'm perfectly happy with the quiet.