A couple of weeks ago, as I sat on our back deck enjoying my Manhattan, my mind went to how my life had changed because of this terrible virus. My wife, Linda-Marie, had taken what was happening much more seriously than I right from the beginning, and had us stocking up on essentials long before most other people. An extra carton of laundry soap here, an extra bottle of disinfectant there and yes, always an extra package of toilet paper. So, because of her wise diligence, we have been riding the "Stay at Home" rules pretty well. But that's just the essential supplies side of things. The emotional side hasn't been so smooth.
Every morning I torture myself by reading our local paper and the
NYT. Even before the Coronavirus hit, the amount of horrendous news was overwhelming, supposedly civilized human beings bombing and shooting innocent people all over the world and all of us desecrating this sacred planet. I had become numb to it all and it shames me. But now we add to that already poisoned soup another ingredient, a deadly virus that kills everyone, for no reason at all.
I was also thinking about my friends. Because of my career in publishing and bookselling, I have many friends who write, some for a living, some for a little extra money; some are extremely well-known, some not as much, but all love their craft. "How are
they doing?" I wondered, taking another sip, trying to get in a better mood. "I bet a lot of other people would also be interested in learning how some of their favorite authors are doing in these times. And who better to describe the experience of life during a pandemic than writers?"
That's what sparked this post.
I asked many of the authors I've featured in my blog to share their thoughts on the virus and how it is affecting their lives. You'll read the harrowing story of a COVID-19 survivor, hear from a writer who rations his alcohol and cigarettes while avoiding other people, journey to the grocery store with a writer who looks in vain for flour and canned tomatoes, and join a writer on his farm, where he is hunkered down with his family "catching salamanders, making campfires, and watching the moon rise." One writer lets us peek into her daily journal, seeing her intimate thoughts, and another, who hasn't been able to write in years, was inspired to open up, and reads us a beautiful poem by poet
Robin Beth Schaer for us to reflect on.
I hope you find company and some ease in their stories.
The Writers:
TD Allman
Leif Enger
Cornelia Funke
Will Harlan
Patti Callahan Henry
Sheri Holman
Frances Itani
Leonard Pitts, Jr.
Terry Roberts
JC Sasser
Carter Sickels
Bob Shacochis
John Shore
George Singleton
Laura Lee Smith
Tiffany Quay Tyson
Sheri Holman
NYC
I have some great news to celebrate.
I've been out of commission for about
three weeks now. On March 23rd, I started running a persistent fever between
101-103 that wouldn't come down even with Tylenol. Chills, headache,
excruciating muscle and joint pain. I got all the nasty gastric symptoms first
and lost a lot of fluids so, on March 30, my doctor sent me to the ER. (I'm a
type 1 diabetic and dehydration is especially dangerous for us). I was put in the
respiratory isolation ward, given an IV, and sent home with paperwork for COVID
19. They didn't give me the test,
but I definitely had it; they
told me they were reserving tests only for patients being admitted into the
hospital. There were probably 50 people on my ward, all of us assumed to have
it too, none of us being tested, so you can begin to imagine the undercount of this
disease.
The next day my fever came down and I thought I was better.
But La Covide 19 is a sneaky little bitch and pretty soon the fever was back up --
I completly lost my sense of taste and smell, and I was coughing and struggling to
breathe. My amazing cousin Meredith had mailed me an inhaler which probably
saved me from going back into the hospital. And later the NYU telehealth doctor
prescribed a nebulizer and z-pack which has finally broken things up in my
chest.
I'm now officially 72 hours fever free and can consider myself cured! I
can't begin to express my gratitude to my amazing family and friends who
checked in, texted, asked their churches and synagogues to pray for me.
I am so beyond
grateful to my mom and aunt and sister and step-siblings and cousins. I can't
begin to describe the outpouring of love and support from my oldest friends and
my beloved work friends and new friends whom I can't wait to get to know
outside of this time of crisis.
The lesson here: Please stay home. Please be safe.
This is
far and away the sickest I've ever been in my life. For nearly two weeks I
couldn't even get out of bed. I'm still coughing and probably will be for a
long time. And I'm one of the lucky ones.
I'll never forget the endless wail of
sirens outside, especially late at night when I couldn't sleep. I'll never
forget not being there for friends who have lost family and friends of their
own. I have the antibodies now and can donate plasma.
With love and gratitude. S
Leif Enger
Minnesota
Positively 4th Street
Robin and I live in an old neighborhood in east Duluth. The
University is at the top of the hill, Lake Superior at the bottom, our house
exactly between the two - halfway up or halfway down. It’s a neighborhood of
creaky houses inhabited by people who, like us, are driving less and walking
more.
While social distance has been designated at six feet, the unspoken local
consensus has it closer to twenty, ideal for introverts who really like people
but aren’t much good at visiting. “Good walking weather,” says A, and B
replies, “The best,” and off they both go, feeling affirmed and pleasantly
uncommitted. As time goes on it’s also possible to simply wave or nod. A smile
shows in your eyes, but we all understand a Covid mask is permission not to
speak.
In the evenings, we’ve fallen into British mysteries -
Broadchurch, Endeavor, the Gently/Vera/Foyle triumvirate. They are Tater Tot
Hot Dish in which the reprobates get justice instead of high office. When we
happen across a character or personality we especially enjoy, one of us is
likely to say: why doesn’t that person just move in here on 4th Street? The
gruff old copper George Gently, played by Martin Shaw - there’s a fellow who
keeps a social distance, but when something is amiss, you’d want that man
around. Or James May, the wry presenter of shows about cars and toys and the
wonders of Japan - it’s easy to imagine James standing on any 4th Street porch,
sipping a cup of Bovril. And if one of these days I go for a walk and don’t
return, it’s Vera Stanhope I’d want putting her nose to the ground, up and down
the alleyways until my wrecked self comes to light - Vera who could say to
Robin, I’m sorry pet, but you’ll soon be all right.
Here now, have a cup of
tea.
George Singleton
South Carolina
Right now I’m listening to “What’s So Funny About Peace, Love
and Understanding?” by Elvis Costello. It seems appropriate. It’s odd how many
songs seems appropriate right now. Way to go singer/songwriters.
I’ve gone out two or three times since March 16, and understand, I have vices—cigarettes and booze. I’ve looked ahead, and rationed. I’m not
happy about how judgmental I can be about people who’re out without masks or
gloves—and there are a lot of them. I’m talking, a lot. For all I know, they
can’t get masks, don’t own bandannas, haven’t figure out how to put a sock up
against their faces.
But, normally, as always, I’m home. I have written a few
stories. I’ve read a few novels. I’ve caught myself turning to CNN when this
big lying Tang-colored idiot comes on and tells his stories.
GS
Frances Itani
Canada
I see — now that I reflect — that my daily story since the
beginning of this Plague, can be told in pictures. Which doesn’t mean I’m not
also using words. I’m writing a new novel set largely in North Carolina during
early part of 20th century. A novel that excites me, with a subject I love.
I’ve already had one research trip to the Duke University campus where I was a
student, half a century ago.
But while I’m dithering and struggling with that one, here
are a few of my recorded activities, below.
These include ZUMBA, which I love.
And I removed my juggling balls from a drawer and set them on a table, but they
remain on the table, untouched. And I do manage to get outside to walk a mile
and a half every day.
 |
| And here’s the cleared office space where I actually dance! |
Entries are from my plague journal in which I
write by hand.
 |
A daily pastime, below. Also, an earlier novel of mine that includes experience with a different pandemic, the big one in 1918.
|
In the grocery store, when I did venture out, in one aisle
a trickled layer of white covered all of the empty flour shelves. Is everyone
making bread? And what are people doing with tomatoes? Hundreds of cans of
tomatoes, gone, gone, gone. Not a single one left. A young woman shopping in
the same aisle said: “Whoever bought up all those tomatoes will end up getting
what they deserve.”
I wondered if that was her way of formulating a curse.
 |
Sometimes, I find myself cooking...baking...instead of writing. Here is my minestrone, 6 quarts. A soup I have been making for 50 years and which my family calls Swamp Soup.
|
When I saw how stressed the clerks at the cash registers
were — even though they’re behind thick, high plastic barriers — I went out to
the parking lot, sat in my car and cried.
There’s a distinct tendency to experience a global
restlessness. To wander room to room, check on friends by email or facetime,
ensure that we’re all present and accounted for. And when anxiety creeps in, a
tendency to fritter away time. But let’s not be bleak!
Supply of dark chocolate getting low. I might have to go
out again after all. And milk and cream running low. My husband found a dozen
flimsy paper masks in our first-aid drawer; these might be better than no
masks. As we are both in a high-risk age group maybe we’ll have some of our
groceries delivered.
How thankful I am — especially as a former health
professional, myself — for all the women and men ‘out there,’ doing their jobs
in dangerous conditions.
But all is not lost! I have a new novel coming out in August
2020. The main theme circles around grief, as told through the stories of 6
people (and a parrot!) who come together as strangers and begin to connect in
unexpected ways. Until two weeks ago, I was fully occupied with proof-reading,
working with the editorial and production teams at HarperCollins — who now
inform me that they’re ready to send the ARC out across country.
Warmest regards to everyone, from Ottawa, Canada — where I
stand on my condo balcony to see if I can spot a human below. And where I
search for Spring!
Frances
Leonard Pitts, Jr.
Washington DC
It feels like I’m living through an apocalyptic movie as
produced by Mel Brooks: moments of real dread for people I love and the future
of this country punctuated by moments of low comedy, courtesy of that guy in the
white mansion doing his best imitation of a president in a time of crisis.
The isolation itself isn’t so bad - as an
introvert, I’m used to spending time in my own company.
Most of the time, I prefer it that way.
The difference now is that the element of
choice has been taken away and that’s been something of an adjustment.
There is a real sense, not simply of disruption, but of
dislocation, mundane things you once took for granted having been moved or
changed or disappeared from your life.
No more Friday night dinner and a movie with my wife at the mall up the
road, no more Wednesday afternoon kibitzing at my favorite comic shop, no more
altar calls and fellowship at church on Sunday.
At the same time, I am astonished anew at the creativity of
our kind.
Last week, I retweeted video
of some music ensemble performing individually together from their various
domiciles.
Late night hosts are finally
getting the hang of producing comedy shows in the absence of audience
laughter.
The other day, I threw my wife
a “virtual party” for her birthday - and surprisingly enough, a good time was
actually had by all.
 |
| Leonard's screen shot of the birthday party. |
It strikes me as quite a feat the way human beings adapt,
not just to onerous circumstances, but to that far more debilitating thing, uncertainty.
We have no clear idea how long this will last
or what toll it will take, but most of us - at least, most of the people I see
- are finding ways not only to live through it, but even to find a little joy in
the process.
I call it humans, being.
And it’s really something to see.
LP
N. John Shore, Jr.
North Carolina
The coronavirus froze my pen. Once the imminent death of the
entire human race is on the table, it’s tough to go, “Gosh, can’t I make this
sentence just a little punchier?” So, I stopped writing.
But then, on Good Friday, I found myself basically obsessed
with the twice-married 73-year-old Vietnam war veteran widower I’d suddenly
imagined. So I wrote his story, publishing
Easter the next day. And that work
seems to have unclogged my writer's pipes.
While I am of course aware of the unimaginable amount of
agony and grief this novel virus is visiting upon the world, its upside, for me
personally, is that my wife "Cat", is now working from home. Her new workspace
butts up against my old one.
Being in Cat's company twenty-four hours a day is like a
vacation in heaven. These days, her going to work means her going downstairs.
Best thing ever.
 |
Here's the view of Cat I will miss so terribly when her workplace is once more miles away.
|
When the pandemic is over, and she returns to work, I will
be so happy to awaken from our non-stop global nightmare. But I'll also miss
the wonderful dream I've been living.
Thank you, Jon Mayes, for this means of connecting with
others. That’s no small thing just now.
Patti Callahan Henry
Alabama
The world rocked sideways — or was it turned upside down,
hard to say — just as I was headed out the door for the paperback release of
last year’s novel. One afternoon I am packing and writing speeches, and the
next day both my college age sons are home for online schooling and my husband
is home working in the space that has belonged solely to me for more years than
I can count. Book tour is cancelled — at first event by event and then in one
fell swoop. And at first, I thought this was the adjustment: learning to “stay
put”, learning to just accept and settle in for the short haul. Count your
blessings, they say. Silver lining, they say. But that isn’t the only
adjustment: it’s the world's collective trauma and fear that shifts us as well.
It isn’t, and really never was, only about my schedule or the kids or the extra
workload or figuring out how to do book tour online or cook again for so many
home all day. It was, and is, also about all of us: never before have I felt
such unified grief. Usually our grief is borne alone or only with those who
love us best. But not this time — we are all swamped with it together.
I was once a nurse — it was my first career (aside from a
brief stint at the Wendy’s drive through), and this disaster has brought my
nursing days back in full. I have trauma dreams about being in the hospital.
We’ve let our healthcare workers down — we have placed them in danger by being
woefully unprepared. I can’t focus as well as usual. I check the news too much
and then too little. I feel unsettled and then fortunate as hell: so many have
it way worse than I do, for damn sure. I worry about our bookstores and our
writers and our healthcare workers. In short, I worry. And I also have hope: we
are a resilient lot. We all hate the words “I don’t know” or “indeterminate” —
anathema to all that makes us feel safe. And yet — here we are: what is next? I
don’t know.
Will Harlan
North Carolina
Life goes on, even in a pandemic. I delivered four baby
goats last week.
 |
| One of three new members of Will's family. |
We have taters in the ground and fresh greens to harvest. I
feel incredibly lucky—and guilty—to live on a farm and have plenty of fresh air
and open space. My heart is heavy every day for the immense suffering in the
world, and yet I can take refuge for now in our farm and forest.
 |
| Will Harland's farm |
I pray each
morning, to no one in particular, for all of the COVID victims and the people
dying of other diseases in forgotten corners of the world.
For my kids, boredom has spurred creativity—creek walking,
bamboo forts, and slip 'n' slides made from old tarps they found in the barn.
The time with family has forced me to slow down and reevaluate what really
matters. Instead of working long hours and then driving my kids to practices
and activities, I are hunkered down here with the people I love most catching
salamanders, making campfires, and watching the moon rise.
 |
| The farm from above |
It is difficult to
get any writing or serious work done with two wild boys in the background, but
right now, that's okay.
Terry Roberts
North Carolina
My experience “sheltering at home” during the past few weeks
has been mostly pleasurable, so far. My wife, Lynn, and I are relative newlyweds
of 18 months and so enjoy the time we spend alone together in a house high on a
mountainside outside Asheville, North Carolina. Our sense of being blessed is
compounded by the fact that no one in our family has fallen sick thus far.
 |
| Terry's view. |
As I reflect on our current crisis, however, my ruminations
are tempered by thoughts of two writing projects. The first is a novel that I
just finished set on Ellis Island in 1920 that has to do with the human
susceptibility for xenophobia. In holding that story up against the world 100
years later—our world—I hope that through being apart, we learn something
valuable about being together. The second project is a new novel that I have
been meditating for several years, which is set during the “crash,” the utter
collapse of the economy in Asheville in the fall of 1930, which affected local
life for fifty years after. I am extraordinarily sensitive to the economic
fallout from the current pandemic and hope that in this instance, history does
not repeat itself.
In sum, we are blessed to be here now, and remain full of
hope despite the threats we face.
Tiffany Quay Tyson
Colorado
I am lucky. If I have to choose between going out for an
evening or staying home with my husband, I’ll choose home and husband every
time. Everything I need is here. We have a backyard and a front porch. I have
an office with a door that closes. We have shelves full of books, internet
access, Netflix, cable television. We have a stocked pantry and a full freezer.
I like to cook. I’ve been baking bread for years. I have a few editing and
writing gigs. I’m working on a new novel. I’m teaching, though suddenly I’m
teaching to a computer screen full of tiny faces rather than to a room full of
people. In some ways, my life hasn’t changed all that much. In other ways,
though, it feels incredibly altered.
I miss the small things: walking to a
neighborhood restaurant on Friday nights, yoga classes, happy hours, tennis. I
miss getting together with my mother for lunch or dinner or shopping. I miss
chatting with my neighbors without having to shout from a distance and through
a mask. I adjust. I take yoga classes online. I run until we’re told to wear
masks. I discover I cannot run while wearing a mask, so I take long walks
instead. I talk my husband into doing Pilates with me in our living room. I
call my mother and we chat about what we’re eating, what we’re watching, what
we’re reading. I take naps with the dog. Sometimes the cat joins us.
I should be grateful. I am grateful. But I am also angry and
anxious. I don’t sleep as well as I should. I can’t concentrate. It’s hard to
write. The onslaught of bad news overwhelms me. I stop watching the daily
briefings from the White House. I cannot stomach the lies. On the evening
newscast, a man explains that he works in a hospital but doesn’t have health
insurance. He can’t afford it and his employer doesn’t provide it. I’m furious.
We switch to a different network. There, I watch farmers flush milk down the
drain and plow their crops under. In the same newscast, I see miles of cars
lined up for a food bank. People are worried there won’t be enough. I am angry
that our country cannot figure out how to get the food from the farms to the
people who need it. How can we claim to be the greatest nation if we destroy
food while people go hungry? I cuss at the television and rant to my husband,
who agrees with me. We turn off the news and watch Jeopardy! But then I worry about Alex
Trebek.
He keeps shaking hands with all those contestants and I know his immune
system is compromised. My husband reminds me that these episodes were taped
weeks earlier. But that’s the problem, I say. We should have already been
guarding against this. We didn’t act soon enough.
John Prine dies. I listen to
his music and think about seeing him perform, back when I worked at Austin City
Limits. My husband and I were supposed to see him in concert last year, but the
performance was postponed. We couldn’t make the rescheduled date. We missed our
chance.
I’m reminded that John Prine was a mailman before he made a living
writing songs. Recently there’s been talk of letting the postal service fail.
It’s one more thing to be angry about and I am. But then we don our masks, pull
on our shoes, and take the dog for yet another walk. In Denver, the daffodils
are blooming and our apple trees are starting to bud. The sun is shining. The
neighbors wave. Someone is grilling something and it smells delicious. I take a
deep breath. I remember to be grateful that I am healthy. My husband is
healthy. We have everything we need.
We are so lucky.
Carter Sickels
Kentucky
I was supposed to start my book tour this month for my novel The Prettiest Star; instead of traveling across the country, I’ll be reading from my office and trying to engage with readers virtually. I typically work from home, so that in itself isn’t new or strange, but navigating the shifting terrain of grief, outrage, anxiety, fatigue, etc. is challenging. The days are long and similar. I’ve been trying to devote about an hour or two in the mornings to writing, but sometimes I use the time to read.
This semester I’m teaching a novel writing class for MFA students, and this has helped me stay focused and feel connected. We meet online each week for about two and half hours, and it’s been a welcome respite for me and the students—to check in with each other, and, for a few hours, forget about the news and devote ourselves to talking about their work and about writing. Other coping mechanisms include taking a lot of walks with my husband and our aging French bulldog, Dolly, and just paying attention to the beautiful spring--the blooming dogwoods, the redbuds.
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| Dolly |
I’ve been cooking a lot. I’ve made homemade tomato sauce; garlic soup; various pasta and stir fries. I baked banana bread for the first time (it was good!).
I’m also reading books--for escape, understanding, inspiration. I’m currently reading Paul Lisicky’s beautiful memoir Later; essays about the planet and animals in Dwellings by Linda Hogan; and the first book in Hilary Mantel’s trilogy, Wolf Hall. The world feels uncertain and chaotic, but I have to believe we will get through this – that love and kindness will prevail. Keep creating, telling stories, and imagining a better day.
J. C. Sasser
Georgia
Thank you for this gift. It forced me to reflect on the passing days and how wondrous they've been. The writing of it opened things that had been shut down in me. It made me fall in love with writing again.
I keep a journal. I call it "The Horizon Process Notebook". It's written on the front in red ink. It's the day to day process of writing. It's the day to day life. I snagged some sentences from it and attached it as my offering. I hope you enjoy.
3/16/20 – 4/15/20
by J.C. Sasser
3/16/20
They closed school
3/18/20
Yesterday, we put
down our beloved dog, Blue Moon June
We buried him in the
yard near St. Francis
The coronavirus has
seized our country
The writing has
suffered
I don’t want to talk
to anyone
3/20/20
I apologize dear
journal
I have not been
following the process
3/24/20
Slept in
Wrote 1 hour
Get your shit
together
3/25/20
One of Valentine’s
egg sacs hatched
We have hundreds of
black widow spiders trapped in a jar
Trapped inside our
house
Living in captivity
Today I will finish
the Horizon chapter
Schools are closed
until April 30th
GE cut all capital
projects
I made a bet with
Thomas 30 days from now the US will have less than 2000 deaths
They shut down
Shoney’s
Tried take-out but
only did $100 in sales
I have a strong urge
to be social
3/26/20
It’s like a hurricane
but there’s no weather
3/28/20
Today is the last day
to fuck off
For two weeks I will
not write
I will take classes
and read
Tomorrow - Finish Ch.
1 last paragraph and polish chapter 2
3/29/20
I lost the bet
3/30/20
Finish Ch. 1
Polish Ch. 2
Quarantined until
April 30th CORONAVIRUS
Did not write Sunday
Sunday is day off
The invisible enemy
may be our invisible friend
3/31/20
Yesterday, we played
on a dirt road
Inchworms were
falling from the sky and all the butterflies were blue
The children are
immune
PLOT THE STORY
PLOT THE CHAPTERS
PLOT THE PARAGRAPHS
THE SENTENCES AND THE
WORDS
4/1/20
FINISH CH. 2 OMG!
Make a chart board
4/2/20
Yesterday, we studied
the lifecycle of frogs
I corrected Robert
Esten’s dyslexic tens
Reminded TC the word
hatch has a ‘t’
Mama, what does
innocuous mean?
Harmless
4/3/20
It’s harmless for
most people
Tomorrow, finish the
snakes
4/4/20
I was once OBSESSED
with Peter Deusberg
I mean, it’s not
liquefying organs
We gave eggs to our
neighbors
4/5/20
Just slow things down
and they become more beautiful
4/7/20
We released Valentine
and her spiderlings
4/9/20
We came to Reedy
Creek to visit Mama
We fished all day
yesterday
It was the first time
I’ve felt normal since Blue died
4/10/20
People are counting
the days
They are counting up,
not down
Corona: the rarefied
gaseous envelope of the sun and other stars
Corona: a circular
chandelier in a church
Corona: a part of the
body resembling or likened to a crown
Mama hopes on Easter
there will be no death
4/12/20
We burned pills in
the fire
4/13/20
We’re back on the
island
I wonder how
Valentine is doing
Her name’s not
Valentine! It’s Dragon Bite!
I couldn’t imagine
being trapped in a jar with hundreds of my children
A tornado touched
down when I was outside letting out the chickens
I was out there
thinking it was awfully dark
I kept smiling at the
lightning
4/15/20
There is no one I
trust more than you
Assorted photos from our solitude:
 |
| Prepping for the Apocalypses |
 |
Wind for Richard Ford
 |
| How to make a leaf boat |
|
 |
| Isolated |
 |
| Pokémon Cards |
Laura Lee Smith
Florida
During the pandemic, I find myself running in place. The day
I realized we were headed into lockdown, I drove almost two hours to buy a cheap treadmill, then lugged
it into the bedroom and cajoled my husband into helping assemble it. The gym is closed. This is
Florida, and I’m a baby about running outside from April through October. (If the heat doesn’t get
you, the mosquitoes will.)
From the treadmill, I can see into the back garden, lush
with moss and palms. I’m not a naturally athletic person. I have neither youth
nor physical grace, but I can jog in a straight line. Not fast, not far, but consistently. I don’t run for
fitness, though that is a welcome byproduct. I run to battle anxiety, and this
is truer now than ever. What if we catch it? What if we lose someone? What if we
go crazy? What if we’re ruined? I write fiction, but fiction doesn’t pay the
bills. I’m a freelance copywriter, and my primary client is shuttered. I’m on
hold, and so is my paycheck.
When the cold ball of fear starts to roll around in the pit of my stomach, I lace up and start the treadmill. My daughter and I take turns. She’s twenty-one and restlessly home from college in Philadelphia. She’s become a city girl, and life in provincial St. Augustine is too quiet for her in the best of times.
Now she’s trapped indoors with her father and I, two introverts who are, perversely, finding things to enjoy about forced seclusion. She and I make treadmill challenges: one more mile. Bump the incline. Trim the pace. From every room in the house, I hear her feet pounding the belt. Slide bang. Slide bang. Slide bang.
I have stories inside me wanting egress, but there are days I’m simply too nervous to write. I listened to a recording of War and Peace while running on the treadmill. It was sixty-one hours and I have no idea how many miles.
 |
| Listening to Tolstoy |
Outside my bedroom window, Florida is wet
and getting hotter.
Will higher temperatures kill the virus? Time will tell. Until then, I’m
simply treading, and sweating, and trying to outpace fear.
About my furry friends:
The stout brown dachshund on the treadmill is the Queen of
All—her name is Scout and she was the inspiration for the dachshund in my
second novel,
The Ice House. The little blondie whippersnapper on my lap is our
newest dachshund. Her name is Bailey and she is a handful but she’s also pure
love, so we forgive her.
When you are a writer, nothing is ever finished. Then when
it is -- when the publishers claw it out of your hands and publish it -- you
already are ensnared in the horror of trying to write the goddamn next one. As a result, my life has changed hardly at all. Here at Lake
House, as when I’m in Paris, Lauzerte, Miami and New York, I spend most of my
waking hours trying to figure out what next to write -- or worse, cut.
I am especially busy right now, as with the
help of my wonderful editors at Grove/ Atlantic, I work on the revisions of my
next book.
All that really has changed as a result of the pandemic, is
the venue.
In early March, I flew up to
New York from Miami, intending to return there before the end of the month,
then go to Paris in early May.
In New
York I had a full schedule: an Oxford dinner, theatre tickets, some routine
medical appointments, an evening at the Brooklyn Heights Casino, plus a crucial
editorial conference. I cancelled everything, and fled -- via SUV, not subway,
train or taxi -- to Lake House, my refuge in Putnam County, north of the
City.
I have now been ensconced here for more than a month.
The weather has changed from late snow to
forsythia blooming. The biggest change is internal. I no longer awake
lamenting: Why me? Must this dreadful life of mine drag on forever? If only I
could have been spared the curse of existence & cetera and so forth. Must I
really write again today?
No!
I awake now determined that &*%#@ virus
won't get me.
I've survived land mines
in Laos, massacres in Cambodia, balloon crashes in Nepal, ricochet bullets in
Tiananmen Square, kidnapping in Beirut. AIDS and dengue didn't get me, nor did
that horrendous pulmonary affliction that struck me crossing the Atlantic on
the Queen Mary last autumn.
It did gave me a visceral sense of what happens
when the virus grabs hold of your lungs. A horrible way to die! I don't want to
die like that: gasping, gasping and the oxygen won't come.
The only way to avoid the virus is to avoid the virus. That
I am doing, and will keep doing until a vaccine is devised, and available. I
don't care if it means I stay stuck here for months, even longer.
The generalissimo of this virus evasion campaign is my
associate of twenty years and more, Doctor (of Philosophy) Sui ChengZhong. It
was he who instantly identified me as the target the virus most desires: old,
male, fat (and foolish), various (normally innocuous) pre-existing conditions.
It was he who bludgeoned me into cancelling all my appointments, annulling all
my travel plans, he who thrust me into the SUV, and who now confines me here,
making sure I go nowhere. He won't even let me go shopping.
I have since established that, had I not been
forced to evacuate the city so soon, I would have come in direct contact with
at least two proven carriers of the virus, one of whom was hospitalized.
People sometimes ask why I refuse to write fiction. I tell
them I'll consider writing fiction the day I do not encounter a person or a
find myself in a situation I never could have invented for myself. As
uninventable events descend upon us, I do not wish you luck. I wish you
courage.
Do not expect the government of the United States of America
to do much of anything helpful. We are on our own.
Of course, we always were. As Covid is only
the latest to remind us, the universe never did have inherent moral
significance.
--T.D. Allman
Cornelia Funke
California
Well- and this is a strange and guilty feeling – my life hasn't change that much. Writers and illustrators tend to love staying at home and just working away…especially when they live, as I do, on an old avocado farm and have 6 acres to walk and explore. Additionally, I have Adolfo Cordova, a wonderful Mexican writer, and his photographer wife Mariela, as quarantine companions. If I had made them up, they’d be only half as magical a company as they are.
And here we are at what Corona took away and on the other hand proves to be very much alive:
I founded an artists in residency program on my Farm last year. I pay for travels, I offer small guest houses (the Owl, the Avocado, The Cricket and the Barn) and they feed themselves- or cook for everyone, which most days happens. In all I had more than 20 artists here so far, from Germany, England, Mexico, Argentina, Columbia, Australia…There was Sara, a puppet maker from Leipzig (well, one can’t really call Sara’s whimsical creatures puppets) Ayesha, a Muslim Illuminator from Windsor, Javier, a film composer from Barcelona , Helena, a paintress from Devon and so on and on and on. My Farm was singing, it was covered in paint and poetry, and my life had once again changed completely. This year all my houses were supposed to be filled, but then Corona came. So what does a creative tribe so new do?
We are creating. Talking on Zoom and exchanging drawings and music. Some started working together- a sketchbook suddenly has a Saxophone soundtrack, Ayesha’s illuminations help us count the days, and we all are reminded every day, that artists are indeed a very useful crowd even in dark and difficult days. We have developed a thousand ideas of what to do together once the world dares to open again: let’s paint windows for refugee camps and all those places where nothing opens up after a few weeks. Let’s draw coloring images for all those bored children (we are doing that already. Let's send signed books to hospitals to thank all those who were not able to stay at home and safe.
This is for me the darkest aspect of this time: that it brings me insights and inspiration, time to think and work while others live a nightmare, can’t touch their children, get sick from exhaustion. As writers we have to speak for the whole world and it is separated into those who can stay at home and those who have to work, those who have a home and those who don’t, and once again, as always, those who have and those who have not. I hope all this will resonate in the art we all are currently creating.
Oh, yes…I work on the edit of Reckless 4 to get it ready for print. I just pre-released 14 chapters as readings of the next INKWORLD- Book although I have only written half of it – as a present to my readers. I finished a picture book about Death (I began that one long before Corona 19, I am working on a script with a friend and on a book with Adolfo Cordova about the forests we grew up with (Germany and Mexico) and….well, let’s see.
With warmest wishes to everyone out there,
Cornelia
Bob Shacochis
Florida
I laughed with great appreciation for their smart-ass selves,
those Gen Z kids and the millennials, three or four or five weeks ago when I
heard the phrase Boomer Remover, their clever snarky tag for the coronavirus
outbreak, as sassily dismissive as that other phrase they aimed at me and my
generation—Okay Boomer. I love responding to people my age by telling them,
Okay Boomer. My age? I’m over 65 (68) with underlying medical conditions, which
demographically puts me near the center of the virus’s Kill Zone.
But I didn’t laugh at today’s headline in the Tallahassee
Democrat, highlighting a story reporting that the data collected in Tallahassee
and in its surrounding county, where I live half the year and teach at the
university, revealed that the age group
most infected here is the 25-34 year-olds. I emailed the article to the grad students in
my writing workshop at Florida State, who I know are mostly careful, thoroughly
bored, appalled by their lack of interest in reading anything, struggling with
anxiety that wants to slip over into depression, and dreading the thought that
somehow they might end up being responsible for the death of a stranger or a
friend or a parent. As they worry about us boomers, we worry about them. A lot.
If my math is right, the 25-year-olds in my class were 6
years old when the Trade Center towers came crashing down into their
pre-pubescent psyches. They were a bit older when crazy fucking white boys with
AR-15s started slaughtering children and adolescents and then their fellow
teenagers at school. Who wants to go to school today, children? It was a
miracle that any of them wanted to go. And now, they can’t. Our online workshop is surprisingly effective,
productive, welcome, but we all miss seeing each other in the classroom, and we
miss the performance…my performance, specifically, which of course was
double-edged. Hot bath one minute, cold plunge the next. Some of them ask if
they can come to the edge of my driveway and chat with me. Yes, they can. I try
to make them laugh. Some are easy, a few are very tough customers indeed. And
of course I forget that when they look at me, they’re looking at a guy that
looks an awful lot like their snowy-headed grandpa.
Every morning I wake up at 6 am to pee and take the day’s
first round of meds—blood pressure pills, blood thinners, and an opioid (my
knees are bone on bone—no cartilage). Several mornings ago, moving through the
darkness from my bed to the bathroom, trying not to step on a dog, I had an
unfamiliar sense of clarity about the nightmare our planet has been
entertaining here in 2020. With a sense both of recognition and of horror, it
seemed that instead of the world’s struggle coming to me, my struggle had
spread out into the lives of everybody else, and now everybody was being forced
to live the way I’ve been living for the past several years, ever since my body
began crashing, in 2014 actually, after I came off the road from my last book
tour thinking, Damn, I just had so much fun and behaved so wonderfully badly in
the past four months I should be dead---and then by March I almost was. Blood
pressure 300/200, heart rate 170. Don’t try this at home.
Since then I’ve been
living a life that’s not terribly different than the locked-down lives most
people are living at the moment. And that background hum of dread you
hear? That same hum is what I hear every
night at bedtime, knowing that when my blood pressure and heart rate freak out,
it’s usually at four or five in the morning.
Honey, wake up, I need to go to the ER. Do you want to talk about it?
She says, still half-asleep. No, I say, I don’t. Please get up.
The silence, and the background hum and hiss of dread—it’s
deeper and more penetrating than it was after 9-11, and I’m not surprised that
seismologists have begun to hear the inhabited parts of the planet in a
different way than they ever have. This is not the same silence we hear in
nature—which is actually never silent: a forest, an ocean, a desert, a mountain—there’s
always some kind of racket going on out there. I get in my truck every
afternoon and drive my dogs south of town into a pine forest, fifteen miles
from the coast, flat and ugly and hot as hell, logged out a half-dozen times in
the past 150 years. But still, my dogs can run, I can walk (hobble) freely, and
the noise of the silence has the purity that comes close to being an anecdote for
despair. And once a week, on the way home, I stop at a gas station, pull on
gloves, strap on the hateful mask, and rob the place. I really need the
adrenaline.
Okay boomer, just kidding. I buy my wife a lottery ticket,
to turn her head a degree or two to the future.
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