By JC Lynne
Originally posted May 21, 2020
Day seventy-four, and there is still no hand sanitizer to be found. And don’t get me started on the yeast shortage. Okay, that sounded worse than it should have. Where are the jalapeños? Why isn’t there any Monterey Jack cheese? What is the attraction these gabachos have to Pepper Jack? Enter primal scream here.
Is it Thursday? I think it’s Thursday and it could be May. Except it was eight-nine degrees yesterday. It shouldn’t be that hot in May. Did I miss May? Is it July already? Wait, did I eat lunch? Is it lunchtime? It’s noon? Where’s my wine? A new bottle? Oh man, did I finish the last one already?
Okay, let’s get real. This isn’t a problem. Well, it’s not a crisis. It’s a . . . I don’t know what it is, except it definitely feels like the opening chapters of a dystopian novel.
ORWELL. ATWOOD. KING. TAKE YOUR PICK.
Sure, a lot of us need a haircut. Maybe you are missing craft beer on the patio. Some of you have even missed out on graduation. One thing I’m venturing to guess that you have experienced if you are a writer is the dreaded assumption.
“WITH ALL OF THIS EXTRA TIME, YOU MUST BE WRITING LIKE THE DEVIL.”
I don’t know some of you may be humming right along and ticking up the word count. Good for you. Seriously. Me? Not so much. Never mind I spent the first thirty-two days of my quarantine with the Rona, even if I had been vertical I’m not sure how much writing I would have managed.
I am a newly empty nester so it’s only me, The Beard, and the animals. The Beard has been working from home since the end of February. His commute runs the length of the hallway to his office in the garage. The dogs don’t know what to do with us. The cats, well they’re cats.
Dogs are so happy we’re home. Cats have confirmed their suspicions that we’re pathetic losers.
I’ve had to remind The Beard that we’re really not suffering. Despite our lifetime training as introverts, we do have space enough so as not to kill each other. Most of our essentials were already being delivered. And if we desperately need to leave the house, we have a backyard to visit. More importantly, we’ve only experienced ONE internet outage. So we’re in pretty good stead.
There are a lot of things generating valid anxiety. We’re worrying about our long distance offspring. The news is depressing on every front. I’m non-essential and thus am not earning a paycheck. The Beard emptied the dishwasher and I can’t find ANYTHING. (If you notice a stray half-cup measuring cup, tell it to come home.) A certain author is publishing the exact same story from a different character’s perspective. Seriously?
I DON’T KNOW ABOUT YOU BUT ANXIETY KILLS MY CREATIVE MOJO.
My point is this, if you are like me and your word count has been suffering, there isn’t any thing wrong with you. It’s not laziness. It’s not lack of passion. Nor is it failure. Give yourself a little grace. Take a moment (or two or three) to grieve for a level of normal gone forever. Allow some processing time to try to understand our new paradigm.
Trust me, the writing mojo will return. I wrote a thousand words yesterday. I don’t know what I’ll get done today or tomorrow, but hey, I have nothing but time. And wine, I have plenty of wine.