The cycle continues. I, of course, am going to miss a— let’s be real — somewhat self-imposed deadline for submitting a novel draft. For the past four months I’ve been trying to work on a project that an agent I greatly respect wanted to see, and I’ll still try to finish it, but not anywhere near when I should have. I feel a great guilt over this, then I feel guilty for wallowing in any kind of personal disappointment in the face of a global pandemic.
I got more important things to be depressed about. My back has been messed up for a few weeks. It’s just now starting to get better as I get on weekly Zoom meetings with a physical therapist (as part of a medical research study because I knew I’d be cancelling my health market plan). I got laid off, and I’m navigating how that will pan out insofar as I know I should be laid off, but I’m nervous my state will reopen the economy far too soon. My girlfriend and I are both stuck at home. I haven’t seen any friends or family in about a month. Chel has seen her parents only briefly, from ten feet away and through a cracked window. The steps leading to our apartment are littered with mail and shoes which we run Lysol wipes over everything and let it sit for a day or more. It’s unending.
And yet it’s the novel I can’t stop thinking about. For me, all of those other problems are just too big to traverse. I allow and…
