You’re a writer.
You’re busily writing your little novel.
Sorry. Your EPIC novel.
And then Facebook sends you an email. Jenny has commented on your status.
Hell yes you click on it. You want to know what Jenny had to say about the guy you saw break up with his girlfriend in a crowded restaurant last night while you were choking back dry salmon. You have to know! So you take a little break from your EPIC novel to check. And her response is so funny, that you take the time to respond.
And then you see the status messages of a few of your other friends. And one of them has a link to the YouTube video of that skunk that got its head caught in a fence and the guy who got sprayed trying to free it.
And then you have to spurn someone else’s Farmville request and write a new status message letting everyone know that Farmville requests will cause you to unfriend them. You have to be stern. But not too stern. So it takes you a little while to compose that status message to be both firm and funny.
And then your phone beeps. Three people have RT’d your link to that article about writing. You know, the one where Franzen says that people who work where there’s internet can’t be writing very well. And they all comment back that Franzen’s brilliant, but a giant blowhard. Who can do anything without the internet these days? I mean, YOU use it for researching this EPIC novel, right, so what the hell does he know?
And so you respond back to your tweeps: “Pfff!”
And a few seconds later your phone’s beeping again with all of their brilliant responses.
Because your tweeps are chatty.
And one of them has a link to another article in Publisher’s Weekly about how USEFUL the internet is, as penned by another brilliant novelist.
So you need to read that.
And then you RT that article to all the rest of your tweeps.
And then it’s lunchtime, so you stop to eat a sandwich.
And then you have actual freelance work to do, so you get that done. And then you have to check FB and Twitter again because your phone and email have been buzzing all afternoon.
The comments and posts are shocking and interesting and time’s ticking away.
Next thing you know, it’s after 3pm, and you’re late to pick up the kids. So you run downstairs in your socks, forgetting that your husband just waxed the floor this weekend. You slip, fall, and bonk your head on the side of the banister.
Now you’re dead. With an unfinished novel.
And that is how Twitter and Facebook will kill you.