I've decided that this fall's project will be to stop biting my nails. The winter air wreaks havok on my fingertips, so much that last season I resorted to sleeping in those creepy gloves, first slathering my hands with vaseline, or some Origins stuff, or some other concoction--I've tried everything. It's not bad, but I'd still rather fix the habit.
I do it primarily when I'm thinking about something--in movies, watching TV, in pauses between writing. People have suggested that it's anxiety--which I'm certainly not short on--but it's more a way to focus, and at this point I've made it almost impossible to shift my brain into that analytical mode without stuffing a finger in my mouth. How childish.
So if you see me out in the world, eyes glazed over, somehow distant, moving from one finger to the next, in obsessive maniacal despair--remind me that I'm supposed to be giving it up.