We’re into month 14 bazillion of this pandemic, and while it felt like we were close to the end for a bit, I now feel stalled out again. I’ve mentally checked out in a lot of places, and I feel antsy for the next part of life.
For the “post-pandemic” life, to be able to go somewhere, anywhere. I can’t wait for this part of life to just be part of the past.
Another thing I’ve noticed, as we finish up the TV season, is that so many shows are incorporating Covid-19 into their plot lines. Thankfully, my favorites haven’t because I am burned out. My personal burnout effects my creative burnout and I can say for sure that the pandemic will not be in any of my books, at least for a few decades.
Quite honestly, I don’t want to read about the pandemic at all either.
As a kid who grew up with a special needs brother, I spent a lot of my childhood in doctor’s offices, waiting for appointments on my brother. These were places you had to be quiet, and I quickly picked up from my mom, who is an avid reader, that reading would take you away to a better place.
Reading is my escapism, even when it’s dark and messy and murdery. Reading takes me to a place where things are resolved by the end of the book, where even if things aren’t a happy ending, there’s an ending that characters and readers will have to accept, whether they like it or not.
This pandemic isn’t over, there’s no ending. It just keeps going and going and I don’t know that I feel like it will ever actually be over. I don’t want people to read my books in ten years and know exactly when the book was written because of the pandemic was in it.
We’re all living in this nightmare now, and I don’t want to come back to it for a very long time. The world feels like a weird place and I don’t want my writing to reflect that, at least not any time soon.