What began as a light-hearted post about my husband worrying I spend too much time on the computer has turned into something I’d rather not have examined. (After all, this from a man with three 24″ monitors; who is he to be slinging cyberspace arrows?)
If I’m honest in responding to him, he might have a point.
What’s that I said? My husband might have a point? Ugh.
My initial reaction is denial. I’m not spending too much time on the computer. Did I not tell the world I’d write five pages a day? Did I not create a blog? Who knew widgets could be so intriguing or statistics so exciting? Is this another distraction keeping me from writing?
It’s come down to analyzing my new writing schedule:
Five a.m… I’m on the computer in a golden zone where thoughts shoot out of my fingertips. I’m pumped for at least two hours, maybe five. When the good stuff starts to slip away, yes, I stray into electronic connections; e-mail, FB, my blog, other blogs, daily headlines, my favorite crossword puzzle.
What my husband sees: Me, propped up by three pillows, typing in my pajamas on the bed in the spare bedroom.
Eight, nine or ten a.m… I need to move my body so I walk our waiting dog for an hour; rain or shine or blistering heat. When we return, I shower and do a few household things, depending on the clock.
What my husband sees: Nothing; he’s in his office, barricaded against the world, focused on his work.
Noon… I try to write again, back in the spare bedroom, but take a moment with my media centers. Sometimes, I’m sidetracked by Lindsey Lohan’s latest predicament. If this happens, I work on another project, say researching the perfect agent and constructing a query letter.
What my husband sees: Me, on the bed when he comes out for lunch. I’ve upgraded to sweats, but to him, they’re pajamas.
Mid-afternoon… Feeling claustrophobic, I move to the dining room table. Hopefully I’m nearing my five pages. I have the Internet opened in the background. At this point my husband comes downstairs for an afternoon snack and things get dicey…
What my husband sees: He congratulates me on getting out of bed and getting to work. (I fume. I’m distracted, but I try not to eat. I can no longer write.)
End of the day… I’ve jumped back on the computer to note what I want to remember in the morning, and yes, I check one last time to see what everyone is doing on Facebook. Ten minutes might turn into an hour.
What my husband sees: I’m on the bed in the spare bedroom when he comes in to kiss me goodnight. Sometimes I fall asleep there.
By now, even I can see what my husband sees.
The question is—what am I going to do about it? ~ JD here