Sorry- I forget you need to register for the NY times- for the benefit of those not registered- here is the article:
LIVES
Clicking the Habit
So it comes to this: Write books or play another round of
hearts on the computer? By LYNNE SHARON SCHWARTZ
ow that my habit is history, I don't mind
going public. Sharing, that is. Sure, I
miss the high. I'll miss it every day for the rest
of my life. But I know I'm better off clean.
The war on drugs drags on, A.A. meetings are
S.R.O. but no one breathes a word about the
addiction that's become the writer's
occupational disease: computer solitaire.
Maybe that's because it leaves no visible signs:
no needle tracks or dilated pupils, no
staggering gait or slurred speech. And it's
more or less harmless: no highway wrecks or
liver failure or ghastly teen mayhem. The only
problem is that we don't get any work done.
But maybe we really don't want to get any
work done.
It is no secret that writers, in fact freelancers in
general, will use any delaying tactic to avoid
starting work. In that sense, solitaire (so aptly
named for our condition) is the diabolic answer to our prayers. It even
feels almost like work -- after all, we're poised at the computer, able if
not quite willing.
I used to think I was the only one. My shameful little secret. I'd go to my
desk full of good intentions, but before I could glance at the waiting
work, the husky voice of temptation would murmur, How about a quick
game of solitaire (or maybe hearts) for starters? Five minutes, no big
deal. There went the first half-hour in captivated oblivion. Sated, I'd turn
to the task at hand and concentrate for an hour or so, if I was lucky.
Then out of nowhere came a faint gnawing in the gut -- the need for
another hit. Next, as night follows day, the familiar debate between the
stern disciplinarian and the libertine who share my head. Forget it. Before
they could warm to the subject, my fingers, apparently with a will of their
own, were clicking on the game keys. On it went, from work to play and
back again, into the fading light of another lost afternoon.
Hearts, in particular, led me into pockets of
the past better left unvisited. In each game
I needed to give names to my three
adversaries. Sometimes I chose the names
of childhood friends I hadn't seen in
decades and found myself re-enacting
nasty pre-pubescent squabbles. Let's get Sue, I'd mutter to Judy -- she
always thinks she's so special. Or while passing the dread queen of
spades to Ronnie -- there, that's for the time you snitched about the
homework. In more vindictive moods, I'd choose the names of long-lost
boyfriends or teachers who hadn't appreciated me enough. As a way of
settling old scores, this was pretty pathetic, and besides, I usually lost.
Finally it dawned on me that I was playing against a programmed
machine, and the program, by whatever name, was smarter than I was.
With some trepidation, I confided my obsession to a few friends. Imagine
my surprise! All over the country, my colleagues, in their monkish
solitude, were mesmerized at the screen, escaping the rigors of le mot
juste. (One luminary confessed to 9,700 games of solitaire. Others raved
about Tetris, a trance-inducing game luckily unknown to me.) Add in all
the consultant types working from home nowadays, the graduate students
huddled in the library, plus retirees charmed by their new toys, and it's
clear that we're faced with an epidemic.
Once I caught on, I did what every addict does. Rationalize. I can lick
this if I figure out what's driving me. Analyze the urge and master it.
O.K., it wasn't the games themselves. I could go for years without
shuffling a real deck. It was watching those virtual cards jump around on
the screen at the flick of my finger. Magical. Hypnotic. Irresistible. The
sheer distracting nonsense of it. There were deeper reasons, too. The
perennial frustration of writing, aggravated by the corporate takeover of
publishing, the decimation of independent bookstores, the fact that
editors no longer return phone calls. I was avoiding not only the blank
screen but also all its ramifications.
Still, addiction is addiction. The truth did not set me free.
At this rate, my professional future was doomed. Did I want to spend my
life playing solitaire or writing books? The choice was simple; I knew
what I had to do. Banish the program files. But oh, that moment of truth
when the screen flashed its ultimate challenge: "Are you sure you want to
delete this program permanently? You will not be able to access it again.
. . . " My finger trembled over Enter. Life would never be the same.
Gone that rapt oblivion; gone the thrill of watching the cards leap and
pirouette at my whim. Never again to see those delicious words -- You
win! -- alongside the tiny red and black hearts logo. I took a deep
breath, recalled my once-purposeful life and clicked solitaire, et al., into
limbo.
It was one of the hardest things I've ever done, but I'm glad. It was a
matter of life or death, professionally speaking. Choose life, they say, and
I did.
But they also say nothing's truly lost in the digital world. Can anyone tell
me how to get them back? I've learned my lesson. I'd only do it 10
minutes a day, I swear.
Table of Contents
June 04, 2000
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