I have officially been reunited with the outside world for 24 hours, and already I’m feeling slightly overwhelmed by my constant availability. For the two weeks I was without phone, I was untouchable for certain times. You couldn’t get in touch with me while I was driving, or working, or when Wes was on the phone. I was a ghost, a wraith, an entity that existed solely on the screen of your monitor.
Now, though. Now I’m painfully available. I got a phone call yesterday, about five seconds after I got home and picked up my new cell phone, and I had to tell the person I’d call her back because I was so annoyed that someone would have the gall to call me. I know, nice right?
I’ve been very insulated, and I’m ashamed to admit I’ve really enjoyed the peace. Technically, I can still turn the ringer off on my phone, but it’s too tempting to know that all I would have to do is grab my phone to check my emails. I’ve programmed my phone to alert me when I have new emails by chiming a soft little chime, so now I don’t have to check it every five seconds, but I’m so obsessive that sometimes I just check it even if I haven’t heard the chime, if only to make sure it works.
Last night, I was working and I had my new cell phone on the desk next to me. It blinked red every five seconds, letting me know I had new messages and emails, and I may have told it to stop being so pushy and mind its own business already.
Clearly, my new cellular friend and I have boundary issues.
After much tinkering, I have figured out how to customize the amount of hooplah I want surrounding new messages and emails. This helps a great deal, as I am now able to concentrate enough to actually get work done. It’s amazing how distracting a cell phone can be sometimes!
Now is an especially bad time to be getting distracted. I have a mere 700 words, wait, let me emphasize this, A MERE 700 WORDS separating me from NaNoWriMo victory. Imagine my frustration this morning when I had to break from my writing early and fold laundry.
Poor Wes happened to wander upstairs as I was folding and had to withstand my delirious assertions that laundry was an inferior way to spend my time as it was definitely not going to be getting me published anytime soon. Unless I wrote laundry memoirs or something. Which could be a good idea for later.
Unless something terrible happens, tomorrow I will fall, twitching and spasming, across the finish line of National Novel Writing Month. I will raise my tortured fingers to the sky and dance a jig. I will shout my victory to the foggy heavens. I will eat brownies. Oh yes, there will be brownies.
The funny thing is, I still haven’t come up with a title for the book. Perhaps I’ll call it “Of Ibuprofen and Joint Pain” or “Write Club”. I assume that book titles usually have something to do with the story, but really, convention exists if only to be challenged, yes? If in the throes of novel-completion-inspired euphoria I decide to name my novel “Cheese,” who’s to say I’m in the wrong?