Skip to main content

The Silent Author: Why My Phone is on Do Not Disturb - Forever

I don’t know how y’all do it. Truly. I am in absolute awe of the people who walk around with their phones chiming, pinging, jingling, and jangling like an overenthusiastic one-man band. It’s like their entire existence is set to the soundtrack of Incoming Notification Symphony No. 5 in B-flat minor.

Me? I cannot. I will not. I refuse.

The first thing I do when I get a new phone—before setting up email, before adding my contacts, before even connecting to Wi-Fi—is turn off notifications. Every single one of them. If a phone could gasp in horror, I swear mine would.

“Oh, you don’t want to be alerted when someone breathes near your social media? You’re sure you don’t need to know immediately when Aunt Carol posts another blurry photo of her cat? You really don’t want to be reminded for the 47th time today that you left an item in your shopping cart?”

No, phone. I do not. I want peace. I want quiet. I want my train of thought to pull out of the station without being derailed every five seconds by the digital equivalent of a toddler repeatedly tapping my arm going, “Hey. Hey. Hey. Hey.”

Why Do Apps Think I Work for Them?

I don’t know when it happened, but somewhere along the way, my phone decided I work for it.

“Enable notifications to stay informed!”

Absolutely not.

“You might miss something important!”

Good.

“Are you sure you don’t want to know when a person you followed in 2011 likes a post?”

Positive.

Listen, I’m an author. My job requires long stretches of deep, uninterrupted thought, which is already hard enough when the actual real world keeps interrupting with actual real things like meals and people who insist I occasionally leave the house. The last thing I need is my phone joining the conspiracy against my focus.

How Does Anyone Deal with This Madness?

I’ve seen people who just accept it—living their lives as their phones chirp and buzz like deranged, overcaffeinated cicadas. How do you do it? Is it just background noise at this point? Do you hear a ding in the middle of the night and roll over, whispering, “Ah yes, another email from my dental hygienist,” before drifting back to sleep?

Meanwhile, if my phone so much as lights up unexpectedly, I fling it across the room like it’s possessed. Which, honestly, it might be. If we’re being completely truthful, half the reason I refuse to turn notifications on is because I don’t trust technology not to become sentient one day, and I would prefer not to give my future robot overlords a detailed account of my every waking moment.

Embracing the Blissful Silence

I like to believe I live on a different plane of existence—one where my phone is merely a tool, not an omnipotent, beeping dictator demanding my immediate attention. If you need me, send me a text. Or an email. Or, I don’t know, summon a carrier pigeon. Just don’t expect my phone to remind me to respond.

So to all of you out there, bravely navigating a world where your phone is basically a needy toddler with Wi-Fi—I salute you. But I’ll be over here, blissfully unaware, with my notifications permanently set to “No, thanks.”

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

A Labour-Free Labour Day? Yes, Please!

Hello and Happy Labour Day to all my lovely North American readers! Now, isn’t it just a little bit ironic that a holiday with the word labour baked right into the name is universally observed by doing absolutely none of it? Zero. Zilch. Unless, of course, you count the rigorous work of flipping burgers, casting fishing lines, and chasing wasps away from the potato salad. Then yes—we are a nation of highly skilled, recreational labourers. Olympic-level loungers, really. This year, I’m wholeheartedly leaning into the contradiction. After an exceptionally busy summer filled with writing deadlines, creative misadventures, and one unfortunate incident involving a Papillon, a pie, and a squirrel (don’t ask—Pixie is still refusing to discuss it), I’m embracing the art of not doing much at all. My Labour Day weekend plans include: Reclining in my favourite chair like a dramatic Victorian heroine recovering from a fainting spell. Watching the endless activity in the harbour just outs...

The Art of a Well-Timed Swear

There comes a moment in life when frustration bubbles over, and the only logical response is… well, a good, solid, soul-cleansing swear word. I’m not talking about casual, everyday muttering under your breath. No, I mean that moment when nothing else will do. The kind of moment where dropping your toast butter-side down feels like an act of war, where technology conspires against you, or when you stub your toe so hard you briefly see your ancestors. Now, I was raised in a house where we had a rule: Use your words, not you hands. This was my dad’s way of preventing sibling-induced concussions, and frankly, it worked. We weren’t an inherently violent bunch, but three kids in one tiny household meant tempers flared, and so did elbows. The logic was simple—if you had time to yell, maybe you’d have time to think twice before swinging. Or at least give your victim a solid head start. This philosophy stayed with me, though in adulthood, I’ve adapted it to use a well-placed expletive now a...

A Bird Pooped on My Head and Other Life-Changing Moments

True story: a peaceful morning, blue sky, the smell of damp leaves on the sidewalk, birds chirping with enthusiasm that can only mean one thing— trouble. I’m out walking my adorable Papillon, Blueberry (who is, let’s be honest, the true star of my writing life), when BAM. Something hits me. Not metaphorically. Not spiritually. Physically. With a plop. I know immediately. There’s no mystery here. I’m a cozy mystery author, and even I don’t need clues for this one. A bird just pooped on me. Right on the head. Bullseye. Olympic-level accuracy. Somewhere, that bird is getting high-fived by its feathered friends and earning itself a tiny gold medal for "Most Precise Aerial Delivery." And let me tell you—it was disgusting. So there I am, frozen on the sidewalk, trying not to scream in front of my dog, who is looking up at me like, “Why are you standing still, and also… ew.” I sprint home, Blueberry bouncing along beside me, clueless to the drama, and I leap into the shower...