The last few weeks have been crazy, overwhelming with information on the situation. The predicament. The abnormal isolation (at least abnormal for some, though not for me). Myself, I’ve had annoying rhythms and melodies and patterns stuck in my head. A brain response to stress. Anxiety. Worries warranted and not. And so I’ve been writing silly songs and other rhyming things.
But the last few days I’ve finally managed to acclimate. The songs are out of my system.
I’m not easy with the situation but I am resigned to it. And so I’ve been able to get back to what I should be doing: taking advantage of this moment in history to write my stories. I’ve “finished” (in first draft form) two short stories, both of which masquerade as sci-fi but are really, at best, speculative. They use the accoutrements of sci-fi but make no pretense at actually being that form of fiction. (I’m not smart enough to write that.) And today I’ve manage to get up to 26,000 words on the crime/mystery thing I’ve been working on. I’m afraid to finish it, however, because once done I’ll have a novel I have to fix and I suspect the fixing will be a Herculean task. More loose threads than a sweater bought at Giant Tiger.
But at least I’m writing as I feel I should, particularly given circumstances. Yes, at least I’m writing, as you should be too. Take advantage. If ever there was a time for stories, it is now. Who gives a damn whether they’re good? They need to be told, so tell them.