When I set out to learn about my mother's bridge club, the Jewish octogenarians behind the matching outfits and accessories, I never expected to fall in love with them. This is the story of the ladies, their game, their gen, and the ragged path that led me back to my mother.
Most of my clients aren’t writing. The pandemic, the lock down, the news, finances, plans, health, relationships, the future. All these years I’ve listened to writers’ excuses for not getting writing done, for missed deadlines, , writer’s block, life. But never anything like this. I know it’s really hard. Some people don’t have ten minutes of privacy, or a place to write, a walk to take, or a mask or a meal. But I also want to say that if you can muster the energy to write just a line or a two a day, please do it. You are writers. Shine your light.
How are you managing?
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Betsy Lerner 
Write on, indeed.
Strangely, after months of dither and delay, I now can’t stop writing. It seems the only thing I can do is to write through.
I’m writing my fingertips off. Doing very little but. Here in Nova Scotia we’re trying to come to grips with an unspeakably violent mass shooting that took place a few days ago. 22 people dead. A cop, nurses, a pregnant health care worker, married couples, a whole family. In the middle of a fucking pandemic. What else is there?
It’s so awful Bobbi. I’m sorry.
My condolences, Bobbi. Peace.
See, the thing is, post apocalyptic fiction is out, because, well, obviously. And political thrillers are a no go because so many of the politicians are more horrifying than thrilling. Romance? From six feet away? Unlikely. How about medical thrillers? Hm, maybe not. Historical fiction then? Honestly, six weeks ago now feels like ancient history. I am writing, but it’s fantasy. At least I can control the narrative.
Romance/sex: Doggy style, with masks.
I can edit but I’m finding it impossible to write new things. When I finish current edits I may rummage in my notebooks and files to find something else to edit.
I’m writing about 20 minutes a day. It’s a fucking miracle. I’m also thinking about reading a couple poems first thing to remind me how it all works.
“How are you managing?”
As best I can. I have all the essentials, so that’s all covered. As for the writing, I’m working on a book-length fiction that I work on every day.
And hey — two of my short fictions were published in the past week. “The Tree” is up at Anti-Heroin Chic, and “Crazy Little Heartworm” at Four Way Review. I won’t include the links here, as that strikes me as a little tacky.
I hear my downstairs neighbor cough. He is a young man and has had his notable cough since long before the pandemic began. He has an old dog and when he is not there, his old dog grows lonely and occasionally sings the blues. Loudly.
The neighbor coughs. The dog is quiet. I must go, the day awaits, though it shall be attended to within the confines of my apartment. Thank god for the Internet.
Congrats on the short fictions! All good news should be celebrated, even if at a distance.
There are people in this world who have it a lot worse than us on a daily basis, minus the pandemic. People in the US are whining about toilet paper shortages and how inconvenient it is to not be able to get out, sit in a restaurant and enjoy a steak and fries. We’re a nation of privileged shitheads who need to stop complaining and take a hard look at the mess we’ve created and, more importantly, what can be done about it. I’m saddened by the losses we’ve suffered during this modern plague and I hope those who are sickened by it recover soon. My condolences to anyone who has lost a friend or loved one. To those idiots protesting (without facemasks) because they want to worship nothing more than the almighty dollar — fuck you. Listen to the medical experts and ignore the fool in the Whiter than White House. It’s going to take longer than we want, but hopefully this will pass, just don’t expect things to ever be the same.
Today is Earth Day and the earth is beginning to heal — oil is less than zero because planes aren’t flying, cruise ships are docked in the bay and people aren’t driving as much. The air is cleaner, factories closed and smoke stacks no longer spewing smoke. Water is testing cleaner. Let’s hope the world is paying attention.
Writing? Yes, as much as I can.
Sadly, I agree. Well said.
Yep. Writing.
While also pondering how blind some people are.
Any new fiction I try to write seems to be colored by this thing, which messes with my head. Instead, it’s back to my notebook and pen. Ranting, bitching, pissing myself off. My days are not my own right now. I’m just trying to do what’s needed and hang on.
Uhg! Doing puzzles and cooking and watching Netflix and indulging in a lot of self-loathing. But I am blogging and trying to figure out Instagram and hashtags. The old gray mare she ain’t what she used to be.
Cooking is weird right now. This morning I woke up and realized that although I cooked a couple of meals yesterday, I never actually ate. Not sure what happened there.
Well that’s no fun! Eat twice as much today!
I’ve always been one to fight back (resist, let’s say), but lately it all feels hopeless. I’m crying over silly things—applause for the healthcare workers, dogs running their hearts out in years-old agility competitions dredged up on YouTube—but the big scary stuff only makes me go to sleep. It’s like my brain hits a wall and knocks itself out trying to get through.
I can still write, though. We’re lucky to have these other worlds to drop into and control, especially when things start to spiral.
Love this! Thanks for the encouragement, Betsy. I’m hosting five Zoom writing groups a week for people in Sacramento who typically write “live” with me, and I’m seeing folks who are on my list but who haven’t written with me in years. And, like you, I’m hearing from others who are so anxious, they say they can’t write. But for many of us, writing is a helpful, healing act. Thanks for putting your posts into the world!
Editing, which is the only time I feel like I’m writing anyway.