I come from a long line of telephone chatters. My Aunt Judy is a Hall of Famer who is still posting huge numbers.
I have no problem with making appointments, calling service lines and other calls with purpose. It's the amorphous "chat" that stymies me.
If email didn't come along shortly into my adulthood, I would likely be classifed as socially retarded.
"Working the phones" was a huge part of my reporter days. I did it when I had to because I liked the other parts of the job. I also overscheduled out of office interviews and tried to turn in so much copy that my editors wouldn't notice that I wasn't there much.
I had a colleague in San Antonio who never left his desk. His specialty was making a dozen phone calls to localize a wire story. He never actually saw anything he wrote. He was a much-valued utility player. We treated each other like opposite species.
I had wonderful sources whom I would meet for lunch or drinks, drop them a note or send a book or article I knew they wanted. But to dial a phone and make the presumption of their time without a specific question or deadline-- I'd rather eat razor blades.
With the exception of an occasional catch up call from my brother, whose work keeps him travelling and who is NOT an email guy, I hate getting phone calls.
I like to talk to people. There is nothing better than a dinner table full of interesting people with diverse ideas. Watching their faces and mannerisms is as important to me as what they are saying. It's the difference between live music and a studio recording. I love live music.
Caller ID came along right about the time I started letting go of good Catholic girl guilt. Combined with voicemail it is a bonanza.
Screening calls is no reflection of the value of the caller as a person -- just the value I place on my work and how very much I hate chatting on the phone.



Copyright 2004 Judi Griggs