Stories begin with an empty page. The white space on my computer screen gradually fills with text – it grows, shrinks, takes form. But my m...
Stories begin with an empty page. The white space on my computer screen gradually fills with text – it grows, shrinks, takes form. But my memory from the early days of the pandemic is of this empty screen before me, unchanged. As the spread of the Coronavirus reshaped our days and nights, I had an additional matter to think about: how to write during a crisis that seemed to be everywhere?
As office commuters settled into working from home and frequent fliers grew resigned to stillness, I heard sentiments from friends and family: “This must be great for your work.” Or, from other writers, “Finally, time to finish my book!”
To me, such thoughts sounded distant and unreal. I am used to solitude, and cherish long periods of time empty of everything but writing. Working from home is my usual state of being. Despite the comparisons, the lockdown was no luxurious immersion for me, no day off from real life.
The world outside may have shut down, but it had never loomed so large. Everything was still, and yet everything was shifting rapidly – from the ticking Covid counters to closing borders, worries about distant loved ones, and news cycles laden with accounts of hunger...
