Brain Babies: Love in the Time of Corana(virus)

Unless you’re one of the badass motherfuckers who is considered an essential worker (my hat is off to you if you are—stay safe and thank you, thank you, thank you!) you are, like me, probably spending a lot of time at home. You’re likely in your pajamas or underwear (of less, but that’s your business and a visual I frankly do not need) with far more time on your hands than you know what to do with.

Maybe you’ve done all the dishes and laundry. The garage is spotless. Vegetables or flowers have been planted. You’ve played every single board and video game in the house at least twice (in my case, that last bit is true anyway). What now?

Now, you write.

Carve out a space for yourself in whatever room is most comfortable. Get a large glass of water (it’s important to stay hydrated). Snag your laptop, or Composition book. Put on music if that helps get your motor humming. Sit down and make some damn words!

You’re probably wondering about the title I chose. Fair. I’ll explain. Other than the obvious homage to Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s book (a fantastic writer! If you haven’t read him, get on that). It’s also a way to remind you all that writing is an act of love. Unless you’re one of those writers who hates the act of writing. If it’s pure suffering for you. Well, if that’s the case, I have some friendly advice for you. Fucking Stop! Why would you be a writer if you hate writing?

[Ken paces the room, shaking his head and muttering darkly.]

I have a theory about that: if you feel like writing is a hateful, miserable experience, your readers are probably going to feel the same way reading your output.

However, if you love it… if writing is fun! Your work will show it.

Okay. That point has been made, and the horse ain’t getting’ any deader.

The other reason I chose this title is that, right now, as we speak (…so to speak), I am actively trying to date again (I was widowed in 2018; one gets lonely). Or, rather, I was actively trying to date. I even had a date set up for a recent Saturday night (we connected on an Internet dating site). The Thursday before our date, the plague came to Michigan, where I live. Prudently, we canceled.

It’s frustrating. The world is scary. We’re trapped at home, able only to go outside (I strongly encourage this every day; it helps keep the isolation demons at bay) or the dreaded grocery store when low on supplies, or to get gas. Other people have become potential disease vectors. We have to stay at least six feet away or risk ending up six feet under.

Use your anxiety. Capitalize on your fear. Channel your frustration. Pour all of it into doing the thing you love. Write.

And, hey… when this is over, hit me up. I’m probably still gonna be looking for a date.

Thanks for listening.

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