Wednesday, April 15

We made it a week without a trip out of the house for anything, and we still have plenty of milk and eggs and cheese. This exercise of avoiding grocery shopping is one of the most difficult experiences of this whole time we are living through. But we have food for dinners for several nights, and tomorrow I’m picking up flour that I ordered from a nearby bakery, and so we remain fed and healthy and safe.

But how long can I keep writing these details? They never actually change significantly. The conflict is there, my creative writing training tells me. But low-level underlying conflict and nowhere to take it does not make for a compelling narrative.

I’ll add some details: Today, Massachusetts officials announced they will be releasing case totals by town, with data to be updated weekly. This gives me another place to look for the numbers. But I haven’t clicked on that link yet. I can feel the virus getting closer.

637,000 cases in the U.S. 28,000 deaths.

Nearly 2.1 million cases worldwide.

But these numbers. They are something to follow, to track, but they are not complete. It feels uncomfortable to be living each day looking for information, to find it sometimes but then to know that I must question it.

We know now, definitively, that this virus is transmitted by asymptomatic people. It is invisibly spreading. And even as we stay home, even as we take every precaution, it will take weeks and probably months more, it seems, to be free of it.

(OK, I clicked. 59 cases in our city.)

Back to my original question. How do I keep writing these things? Didn’t I address the same questions and uncertainties last time I sat here in my bed, running my fingers across the keys? Do I try to record the new topics?

Testing for antibodies is now a leading news story. How do we test for them? And what will it mean? I have considered signing up for an NIH study. It seems like something I could do. Sign a waiver. Hand over a sample of my blood. It also is just that freaky that I haven’t emailed to volunteer.

I have been thinking that maybe as I am devoting more time to writing I should be working on more creative pursuits. I have more than one full-length manuscript — a novel, most of a memoir — sitting in documents in my Google drive. Should I open them up? Do some editing? Rewrite? Submit somewhere? Start something new altogether?

Just writing that short paragraph leaves me feeling bereft, though. I question my ability to focus for the amount of time it would take to make any kind of progress on any creation. My job taxes this part of me to the point that by the end of the day I have to close my eyes for a few minutes and tell myself to let it go so that I can return the next day with my ability to focus on details and to still write the occasional sentence in tact. Writing as a living and writing as a hobby is challenging. Maybe I should learn how to knit for the eighth or ninth time.

Today I did yoga at lunch. I didn’t walk. I made mashed potatoes as part of our dinner. Always a hit. I ate too much chocolate for dessert. I watched Chicago Med. I texted with a friend. I attended two Zoom meetings and sent many, many emails. I changed from PJs to comfy work clothes to yoga clothes and back again. I am writing from my bed, back in my PJs, listening to “Ambient Relaxation” on Spotify while my family is in the other room, watching some kind of game show or Jimmy Fallon clip on YouTube. There is laughing and clapping and other happy noises. I am glad to be alone and glad to hear the occasional chuckle. Glad to know that they are all together, even though it is nearly 10:00 and in a normal world that would be past everyone’s bedtimes.

I’m going to brush my teeth and read for a while, let everyone put themselves to bed, and sleep until Thursday. Another day.

Stay safe, everyone.