I spent the first half-hour of my 5 am writing session roaming Pinterest, looking for activities.
COVID-19 came to our small town, in the form of the ghost of fear and the ghost of panic.
Schools are closing. People are going nuts over toiler paper (oh by all the big G’s up there) and a dangerous, dangerous frustration is brewing.
It’s hard to focus on writing, with that health crisis in the back of my mind.
How will things change?
I know, it’s not kind, but instead of thinking of the poor people who caught that weird flu, I’m thinking about Mother Nature.
This morning, it’s quiet and cool, 4-degree Celsius, 40 Fahrenheit.
Canadian Gooses are goosing on the water nearby, loons are softly swimming around. Heavy clouds are holding the promise of heavy rain. There’s a warning for floods.
And yet, the roads are quiet, like the morning after Christmas Eve.
Theatres are closing, libraries too. No more hockey, no more basketball.
My day job simply stopped.
In front of the computer this morning, looking at my writing project, I’m thinking this is why I write.
To give hope. To make us, humans, dream when we’re happy, and when we’re facing a crisis of this magnitude.
I never feel like writing is useless. For one thing, writing keeps me mentally sain!
But these days, creating stories, to me, seems more important than ever.
We, creators of stories, can provide an escape, a comfort, a giggle or two. Our stories have that much power.
Dear writer friends, out of this worldwide crisis, out of the fears I have for my kiddo and my loved ones, I get sort of a re-assurance about the choice I made to go on this crazy writing quest.
Neil Gaiman said it oh so very well: « Art matters ».
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