In a recent online discussion, several peers made a simple claim I want to test out: when you take a break from the activities you know are eroding your attention span—mostly phone and internet habits–you notice it improving after only a day or two.

My attention span has certainly worsened over the last ten years (especially the last two), and this worsening seems to correlate with how much I use the internet. I presume it is a two-way relationship—a shredded attention span makes it more difficult to absorb yourself in offline activities, which makes online activities more appealing, and so on.

I immediately began planning the simple experiment of staying offline for three days, and quickly realized that such a break would just create a speedbump, not a lasting change. I could see myself dumping my laptop in a drawer, blocking my fun phone apps for 72 hours, then catching up on my missed messages and Wordle puzzles on day four, essentially rebounding me right back into always-online mode.

Instead of that, I want to use this experiment to see precisely where the internet has attached its creeping tendrils to my mind and body, by violently severing all of them all for a few days. Will I be bored? Lonely? Will people hate me for being unavailable? Will I have to guess at the public library’s Wednesday hours?

When the internet lived downstairs

Once I have some idea why and where I’ve come to need an always-on relationship to the internet, I’m going to sit down with a pencil and work out how I can meet my legitimate online needs while staying completely offline at least a few days a week, and only partly online on the other days.

That is my dream—to live in 2022 but use the internet like we used it in the ‘90s and early 2000s, when internet access was tied to desktop computers you had to share with others. “Online” was a place you went to look things up, exchange messages, goof off, or explore—but only for a part of the day, and not every day. The internet was small compared to your real life, which was something that happened offline.

I articulated this desire a few years ago, in a post called It’s Time to Put the Internet Back into a Box in the Basement:

I want my internet confined to a box in the basement again. Such a box would still be supremely powerful—or it could be, if we could keep it from constantly fragmenting our limited time, stoking our insecurities, and dulling our ability to focus. We certainly wouldn’t want to be opening the box fifty times daily, a few minutes at a time, as we tend to do today.

I want to go down to the basement after work, put my messages and my writings into the box, take other people’s messages and writings out, and read them in my easy chair. And I want a big mechanical switch to shut it all off when I’m done with it.

This vision was and still is very clear to me, but I didn’t do any more than write that wishful rant about it.

The other day, when I pondered taking a three-day “detox” to heal my frayed attention span, I realized it would teach me a lot about what I actually need the internet for and what I don’t. Afterward, I can use what I learn to design the more curated, limited relationship with the internet that I actually want.

Perhaps I’d clear my correspondence two days a week, research and reading-material downloads another day, and browse social media for an hour on Saturdays. Writing and creating would happen strictly offline, either on an unplugged laptop or a typewriter, and I’d go online only to publish. I don’t know quite what form my new online routines would take, but I know they won’t involve all-day-every-day grazing.

So I’m starting with the three-days-off experiment, taking copious notes on my typewriter. This short break has two purposes:

1. To see if my attention span improves noticeably in a short time, as some claim.

2. To discover exactly why it is so damn hard not to be online all the time.

Ultimately, the goal is not to stop using the internet, or even minimize its use, but to put it back into a box in the basement where it belongs. The first step is to discover what I’m up against. If I find a way to make the internet small again, I’ll write a book about it so others can do it too.

What does “three days off the internet” mean exactly?

Basically, I’m going to spend as much of the three days as possible away from the internet, without entering a kind of unsustainable hermit-mode that I can’t wait to rebound from.

This entails two essential changes.

First, the phone. I’m going to shut off mobile data, and tether the phone to the wall of my kitchen, where I can use it for calls and text. I’ll take it with me when I go out, data still off. Text notifications will be disabled and I won’t worry about turnaround time. I look forward to chatting on the phone with my pals while I’m sitting in a kitchen chair, like it’s 1996.

I will still use my phone to play music or audiobooks, which doesn’t require data to be on. (I have a Bluetooth speaker and headphones so I can keep the phone in the kitchen.)

Second, the computer. I’m going to put my laptop on a shelf, closed, and leave it there, with a few scheduled exceptions. While in the future I do intend to write on my laptop (with wi-fi off), for this three days I’m going to write everything on my typewriter, including my journal entries for this experiment. I want to use single-purpose nonelectronic tools wherever I can.

I’m going to email a few certain people in my life to let them know I’m doing this. Everyone else will have to find out the hard way. (I’m interested to see how much real fallout this creates—I suspect less than I fear.)

The three days will be this coming Saturday, Sunday, and Monday. I’ll post a debriefing sometime after I’m done.  

Dealing with exceptions

During the experiment, any tasks requiring the internet will be recorded on a clipboard, to be batch-processed after the experiment period is over.

However, I do expect to run into situations where using the internet is unavoidable. I will address any website problems or other urgent issues, for example.

The only time I know I will use the internet is for two evening Zoom calls, one on the Saturday and one on the Monday, which I intend to keep. These are social events (D&D sessions with friends, to be specific) that are good and healthy and exactly what I want to be using internet technology for. We’d do it sitting around a table if we could.

There may also be times when using the internet is avoidable, but avoiding it is absurd. For example, if I forget the address of the place I’m going to, I’ll look it up rather than shrugging and going home. In these cases I will turn data on, use the required tool, then turn it off again, without smuggling in any frivolous stuff.

I’m also going to let some things simply blow up, rather than try to resolve them all beforehand. I’ll auto-forfeit some ongoing chess games. My fantasy hockey team may lose. I’ll break my Wordle streak. My hope is that any such breakdowns will illuminate the many pointless ways I’ve committed myself to being online all the time.

How will I spend the time?

I expect to have more time on my hands, and I’d like to redirect it to reading, exercise, meditation, creative work, and other rewarding activities I often pretend I don’t have enough time for. I’ll cook from cookbooks and paper recipe cards. In other words, I’ll dive into my offline hobbies, Depth Year style.

I’ll also socialize as much as I can, in person when possible. I’m sure I’ll learn a lot about how much I lean on online platforms to replace real interaction.

I’ll still use Netflix and other TV streaming services, because that’s how movies are watched these days, and I don’t think it’s movies that are fragmenting my attention. I won’t use YouTube though – that’s a different animal.

As always, you’re welcome to join me if you like, even for just a day or a part of one. I’d love to hear what you learn. You can post your insights in the comments.

Photos by Brent Dalling, Alejandro Escamilla, Hosein Zanbori, and Pavan Trikatum