Even the shoes we choose—for the past few months it's been running shoes and slippers, with an occasional foray into rain boots. All the fancy shoes (and all the fancy clothes, for that matter) rest comfortably in the closet. There’s no reason to dress up, no place to go. And though there really isn’t a great need to order anything other than food, online ordering is both an outlet and an addiction. It’s pretty exciting when those boxes get dropped on our doorstep…
Even my relationship with my dog is affected. Rusty has always been attached to me, but I’ve been around the house so much lately that I’m pretty sure he’s going to have some separation anxiety once we’re all released from house arrest, and I go out into the world without him.
So, this would be a perfect time to write, wouldn’t you think? Wouldn’t you think that these long unstructured periods of time at home would spawn vast quantities of new material? It doesn’t seem to work that way for me, and I think for many other writers. The creative process hasn’t been nourished by this interlude, this time of waiting, hoping for the vaccine to come and save us. I spend too much time cradling a coffee cup and staring into space.
I’ll keep trying.