Recluse

The real trick in learning to be an eccentric recluse is to leave your doorbell connected. Back when I was an amateur, wet-behind-the-ears unsocialite, I made the rookie mistake of disconnecting my doorbell and telling only close friends and family it wasn't connected. This tactic, however, discourages only the superficial layer of visitors. Even the postman knows to knock in addition to ringing, and many a time I was fooled into going to the door anyway. But that's how I knew I wasn't ready to be a real eccentric recluse. I could still be lured to the door by repetitive knocks or rings.

It may have taken ten years, but I have acquired the enlightened knowledge of how to be the recluse I always dreamed of being. The doorbell works. I hear people knock. I don't have an elaborate (or any) surveillance cameras or video doorbell. I don't even have a window that looks out on my doorstep through which I could potentially peek through imperceptibly parted curtains to ascertain who is at my door. No, the answer is, I just don't answer the door anymore. Ring away, doorbell. Over the past four years as a dispatcher I have mastered the craft of tuning out annoying sounds with infinite patience. Knock all you like, neighbor-who-can't-take-a-hint-that-I-don't-want-to-help-with-the-upcoming-blood-drive. Ring and knock in alternate patterns, political volunteer whose rehearsed rant starts with the even-more-irritating "Oh, but I'm not selling anything!" It will avail you nothing. Whether there are no cars in the driveway or a hundred. Whether all the lights are on or the house is dark. Whether you can actually hear me playing Vivaldi records in my office or the house is silent. I will not come to the door.

And that's how I know I'm ready to buckle down and write a novel.