Some people have posted memes on social media that suggest writers could take this pandemic time and turn it into a gold mine opportunity – to hunker down and create great works of art. That has not been my experience, and I bet others feel the same way. Around a socially distanced, outdoor fire pit, my partner asked my novelist friend how writing was going. She responded that she was too distracted.
I have been hopelessly distracted too – by the death toll, the election, the separated kids at the border (still), unemployment (not me, but millions just here in the US), food and rent insecurity (again, not me this time… but millions and millions). There are other whirlwinds in my headspace. I have three children, and over time I learned to write with – not just despite – but with them around. You would think their ages – 12 soon to be 13, 14 going on 26, and 16 soon to be 17 – wouldn’t be a barrier but rather an opening. They no longer need snacks administered by me on an every-other-hour-on-the-hour basis (they can do this themselves). They dress themselves, shower themselves, prepare their own food, find their own entertainment, set themselves up for their own art projects, and in general, spend more time avoiding me than seeking my attention.
The poetry seems stuck. I can barely read poetry. I can’t remember any more if I’m a poet or even a fully- fledged human being.
It’s worth a read in full.
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