As Megan pointed out in June, the world has changed a lot since March. Some days feel a little less disheartening, others stranger than fiction. For those of us with children, when schools closed (for Knoxville, the rest of the school year), we were thrust into the role of a cross between Principle/Teacher/Parent/all-powerful crisis maven while watching our hair gray at an abnormal rate (I’m letting my crown reign, call it performance art). I know personally, some days I feel effective, most I do not.
On top of a shift in how we move about our communities and job situations, as writers, we’ve had to change the when and where our writing happens. Some days I feel good, even excited about what I’m writing. And then some days I feel it’s unimportant in light of “the sickness”, as my youngest calls it, or Black Lives Matter, or Standing Rock (which as I write this has finally seen a great victory), or the people in my live fighting cancer or other ailments. On those days, when I can’t let go of my grief, that is when the writing is hard and feels like a frivolous luxury. But it’s also when I’m not writing, that I feel the saddest, because while I don’t see writing as a form of therapy, I do see it as a form of caring for myself and my ideas. Writing is the clearest way for me to navigate through this crazy world.
Sometimes it’s hard to know where to start. Continue reading