Is there blood? No? Then why are you opening my office door?
Is something on fire? No? Then why are you opening my office door?
Does someone need CPR? No? Then why are you opening my office door?
Are the police here asking to question me? If they are, tell them I’m not home and let me get back to my writing.
I have had my home office for nearly three years now. It’s the place where I’m supposed to be able to retreat to focus on my writing. Yet, no matter how often I repeat it, my family can’t seem to understand the following statement: “If the door is closed, this means I’m writing and you shouldn’t interrupt me unless there’s an emergency.”
Their ideas of emergency and mine don’t overlap much. To me, an emergency means someone needs immediate first aid. Needing a band-aid doesn’t qualify. Needing driven to the hospital does. Fire – that’s an emergency. My husband informing me he bought the wrong brake light for our van? Not so much. My daughter wanting to know if we have any hot cocoa mix? Nope. Not. An. Emergency.
With the current state of my life, I’m managing to spend about two to three hours per week here, so it’s not as if I’m checking out for days at a time.
Here’s what’s an emergency. My imminent trip to the hardware store to buy a lock.