Ms. Q, Interrupted

 Busily typing. Much words. Eloquence and story glue paste across my screen as I finally make some headway with my interstellar enigma of a character Ms. Q, not to be confused with the spy because Ms. Q isn't actually her full name and she contains zero grams of stealth capabilities.

 Phone. Cleverly prerecorded telemarketers and a persistent father later: phone smash. I'm the only person on Earth that wishes to not own a phone. I submit to the general public more acceptable file formats for communication transfers to my office:

Telegraph
Homing pigeons
Pony Express

I'll even tip with carrots!

 Now I'm found with an hour less than I had before, and only a silly little graphic to raise awareness of the plight of Incoming Distractions. Though I suppose, until I actually finish one of these darn novels I won't have any more rights than other folks to officially be registered as a part-time hermit. You have to have serious creds to get a license these days. Maybe I should steal one from this certain Ms. Q, whose entire existence is spent in ice caves and small space ships.

 Until I get a dimension hopper or a Hermits United card, however, I must pause my negotiations with character development and go out into the sun for the afternoon. Another day, another life lesson. Maybe I'll come across a person that has some really freaky laugh that catalyzes this entire character arc. Or perhaps not, as I'm likely to be trading one computer screen with another for the duration of remaining coherency hours. Tot ziens hippie knitters!

*disclaimer: I'm not usually this unsociable, just cranky that I only receive incoming distractions when I happen to be focusing!