As I sit here trying to compose a wise and eloquent post for my gracious blog host, the iPhone at my elbow lights up with a notification from Twitter. I resist the urge to pick up my phone and read the tweet. This is not easy for me. I have become, in the last ten months, one of those people: a compulsive phone-checker.
It is a habit I am trying to break.
My addiction began in October 2013, with a publication offer from The Wild Rose
Press for my novel Say Nothing of What You See. My publisher told me to establish an online presence. As in, I needed to sign up for social media accounts and be, you know, social. (Never mind that there is plenty of anti-social behavior on social media; that is beside the point.)
I eagerly joined Twitter and Tumblr. I reluctantly joined Goodreads. I grudgingly joined Facebook. My distaste for Stalkerbook Facebook has everything to do with its creepiness as a company, and nothing to do with my author page having four likes, three of which came from my grandmother’s friends.
A few days ago I added Google+ and Pinterest to my list of promotional platforms, because why not? As the old saying goes, “You can sleep when you’re dead.”
But the dirt nap has begun to sound appealing. I assume they don’t bury you with your phone, the way ancient Egyptians buried their dead with tools and treasure for the afterlife.
