I am a slave to email. The little red numbered ball that lights up on the blue stamp at the foot of my computer thrills me. I know of many people who shudder at the sight of a full inbox, but not me. I love the ping that rings out every time another email is shot across the airwaves and lands in my email box.
Yet I should be wary. I have had some wonderful news delivered by email; acceptances of papers for publication and the like, but I have received many more rejections on line.
‘So,’ you ask. ‘Why the thrill?
Is it the ease with which I can communicate with others throughout the world without even having to leave my seat? Is it, as I often reassure myself, good writing practice? A learning opportunity? I participate on seminars and on line colloquia, I receive excellent articles via email, I send out my writing via email. The email spares me the sense of isolation I might otherwise feel as a sole practitioner in therapeutic practice. It is an opportunity for tearoom chatter, the sort I always loved years ago when I worked within an organization.
The pain, however acute, is surpassed by the pleasure and I need never feel lonely.