Embracing the Chaos of Quarantine Made Me A Better Writer
It is only 7:46 and I have moved my laptop from my office to the dining room and back again. They say you need to establish a place to write. That it is healthy to separate your work life from your personal life. That it provides your body the ability to fall back on muscle memory when writer’s block’s shadow looms large at your door. I have coveted this sage wisdom my entire career. I have even been known to pass it along to fellow writers and to my students. Unfortunately, during the delivery of this advice no one had yet experienced a global pandemic that would affect our lives in epic proportions. The one that would force working professionals like me to sit, “criss-cross applesauce” on the floor during their toddler’s Zoom meeting blaring from the phone while simultaneously trying to meet a deadline on the, now, goldfish encrusted laptop. These are different times.
When New Jersey issued the, “Stay at Home” order, I sighed deeply and put on an old tee-shirt. I spent the entirety of the weekend renovating my tiny laundry room into the office in which I confidently told myself I might very well pen the next great, American novel. I repurposed a desk to suit my eldest daughter’s virtual schooling needs. I posted daily schedules and calendars and word count goals all over the walls and vowed that I would keep my, “space” sacred- my office was for working. I showered at my usual time and arrived at my desk, coffee thermos in hand, and proceeded to stare at the screen for hours upon hours; hardly blinking. It lasted the whole of 6 days- and I didn’t write a single word.
At first, everyone respected the imaginary line I drew at the door- even my precarious, devil-may-care 4-year-old with only a few, “Not now, Mama’s working” reminders. We stuck to routines and boundaries because it was calming and familiar- two things that are very much needed during a time of global chaos. But ever so gradually, the perimeters started to give with small concessions here and there, as the words simply weren’t coming anyway. Sure, you can eat your grilled cheese on the floor at my feet as long as you don’t exert any bodily noises that my microphone will pick up. Yes, I can watch you practice your back-hand spring in the backyard from the window, just give me a minute to take myself off of video. Here and there, piece by piece, it became unclear where my personal life and my professional life intersected; I was tired of feeling like I was being forced to choose between a writer and being a Mother. So I chose the option that no one seemed to be suggesting: both.
I dragged the snack tray covered in glitter remnants and grilled cheese crusts and plunked the laptop in the midst of the flurry of Peppa Pig and Common Core Math. I cuddled a melting down toddler to my chest. I had deep conversations about when to stay informed and when to shut off with my third grader. When the walls in our apartment started closing in we went for long walks along the river’s edge. We painted rocks and baked cakes that were too dry but we ate them anyway because flour is a scarcity we never anticipated. And without my power blazer and flat white, my closed door and white noise, my perfectly organized pen drawer, I found the words I had been working so hard to drum up for weeks.
Hemingway said to write what you know. While he isn’t my favorite, I am clinging to this. Dressed in jeans and an old sweater, barefoot and bare-faced, one arm around an over-whelmed kid desperately missing her friends and one hand on the keyboard, no one really knows anything right now except showing up for each other is paramount; for our survival, and our craft.
