They say the writer Dorothy Parker had the habit of answering the phone by exclaiming, “What fresh hell is this?” I have always admired this, and am frequently reminded of it. I’ve read that she initially started saying it whenever her train of thought was interrupted, then later began answering her phone this way.

Back then of course (Parker wrote in the 1920s and 1930s), there was no caller ID. So Parker had the guts to bellow this phrase at whomever happened to be jangling her life, and cutting short the frayed thread of her creative weaving. I like that. I don’t have the guts to do it – even with caller ID – and I wish I did.

Well, not really. Truth be told, I love the telephone; I always have. I like talking to people, and I’ve always wanted to be popular. So on my 17th birthday – 30 years ago next month – my folks got me my own phone and a private line. Here’s my old phone, next to one I’m using now.

State of the art in 1978, kids. But I don’t use it because it doesn’t work well anymore. There’s something wrong with the receiver. Maybe someday I’ll get it fixed, because you gotta admit that’s a real phone. It’s got heft. It’s a thing of substance, unlike today’s instruments. And unlike today’s blogging, in which I’ve kind of veered off into the trivial, from pondering a Calvin cartoon.

I suppose my point is that we writers are communicators at our core, that writing is our way of reaching out into the world and making ourselves available. We leave the line connected – unlike our little friend above, and unlike Parker with her implied demand for solitude – and we hope the phone rings.

Another great Parker quote:

This is not a novel to be tossed aside lightly. It should be thrown with great force.