I don't want to write about the coronavirus. It's all anyone is talking about and it would be nice to focus on some other sentiment. Having said that, NOT writing about the pandemic is putting my head in the sand. So in the name of being present and mindful, here are a few thoughts about life during wartime.
Not a reference to the president's insistence that he is a wartime president, by the way. This may be our viral Pearl Harbor but this isn't FDR we're talking about. Just a timely David Byrne line.
Every day is Groundhog Day in this new reality. That's the sucky part. Get up, write, work out (sometimes twice), maybe go for a drive with my wife, wait impatiently for Happy Hour, binge watch Ozark, go to bed. Sweatpants all day, every day.
I just finished the tenth Killing book and was taking a little break to begin research on a solo project. So most days I don't write much at all, and instead laze around in my office just reading. Even after seven hard months of work on a book that taxed me in ways that few books ever have, this lull feels decadent, and more than a little lazy.
You might think this is a typical day for a writer — and it is. I'm so glad the whole world is working from home right now, because those who have never done so can finally see how awesome this is. Some part of me thinks business as usual will change, and that when this is all over many employees will find a way to work from a remote location. I also think (Doomsday warning) that this is not the biggest pandemic the world will see in our lifetimes. I think this is preparation for something even more virulent. We are a global economy and anything can happen. But at least we get a practice run.
What I miss most is driving across town and coaching my runners every afternoon. And I'm writing this on a Saturday morning where I slept in until nine, just because I could, instead of leaving the house at the crack of dawn to spend all day at an invitational.
I also miss the social interaction of going out to dinner and grumbling about the wait at Tutto Fresco, annoyed at being around a crowd of people, with all the hum and flow of a busy Friday night.
But there are twists to this isolated experience I have come to enjoy. I am staying up a few hours later each night, knowing that I can sleep in. And I am enjoying the extra hours spent working out, whether it be lifting weights or running the trails or simply walking Django in loops around the park.
I like the way people have banded together in a way that feels more courteous. A survivalist with a grocery cart overflowing with canned goods took a look at me and the four items I was carrying in two hands and told me to go ahead of her in line at the store. Entire families are out hiking the trails in O'Neill Park, a wilderness most local residents never ever visit. And when Selma's started doing growler pours of Pliny, a long line of men (and a few women) snaked out the front door of the restaurant into the parking lot, everyone exactly six feet apart, waiting patiently and politely, hoping the keg didn't blow before it was our turn.
This will all end. Callie and I will take that research trip to Europe for the new book, just like we planned. Starbucks will reopen. I'll start going to bed at nine again, then getting up early, that wondrous feeling of rolling over and sleeping another hour once again limited to Sunday morning. There will be crowds, lines, rudeness, and drivers extending the middle finger.
And I think we will all miss this lull. We will be running around at warp speed soon enough, making jokes about the quiet time. I think we will all regret that we did not make more of this pause button, and with it the chance to reconnect with ourselves and the ones we love. I wake up every morning feeling slightly off right now, still unwilling to embrace this unlikely gift. My prayers go out to everyone infected by the virus and those who have lost. But before we get busy, let's make the most of this chance to invest in our spiritual and emotional growth. In a weird way, this is a gift.