I Am Having a Hard Time: Trying to Write in the Time of Corona

I’m having a hard time.

And, specifically, I’m having a hard time forming words. I’ve had many people in the past week and a half talk to me about themselves and still the words don’t fit together enough for me to make sense of them. They slide apart like jello. My people talk in harried voices about their children and their parents. Their worries for both. Their fathers who refuse to cancel their tee times for a full round of 18. Their husbands who have gone to the stores five days in a row. Their sons who still flew to Spring Break. And they send me pictures of empty pasta aisles in their markets. They call me crying because their sisters are pregnant and due in three weeks. They talk about their jobs, or now lack thereof. They talk about the monitors they’ve set up on their dining room tables to work from home. They, individuals with 3 different degrees and acclimation to a six figure salary, are filing for unemployment.

And they call me to ask if I heard about the two new employees at the university who've tested positive. And sometimes my people tell me they are annoyed with it all. Sometimes they tell me they are not worried and no one else should be either.

And most often they tell me strained stories through raw throats about jobs they still must go into. Because my family is full of healthcare workers and it makes me fucking nauseous. They talk about the closeness of being furloughed. Some of their colleagues already have been. They talk of private practices unable to pay their docs and nurses. They talk of competitions to stitch makeshift face masks together. They tell me of colleagues moving their parents out of their homes and in with each other because they are a danger to their loved ones. They talk about not working in the ICU—for now—but they could. They talk about the ICU where patients are no longer exclusively in their 60s and above. They talk about the patients who are starting to fill the ICUs and the landscape is looking a little different, now. They are talking about the people in critical condition that are my age. They are in the middle of it. They are still going.

I am having a hard time.

My life is full of educators. They speak of being cut off entirely from their students, their kids. They speak of pushing through in the name of knowledge. In the name of seeing the semester through. They conference with me through Zoom and Google Hangouts and WebEx. They admit to me, their student, that they are treading water. And so am I. My inbox is full of my own students. They cannot connect to their wifi and their mother has cancer and she is sick right now and they are so terribly sorry but they cannot be present for my lecture on satirical writing forms. They will get the notes from someone else. And I tell them not to worry about it and I mean it. No one is checking to see if I am upholding anything. No one expects me to. I might just give them all As and openly fight anyone who poo-poos it. They are studying, dedicated, through a pandemic. They still show up on my computer screen. They still ask questions. They still laugh at my attempts to relate and they write to me and they show curiosity and awe at their own understandings. And still I lecture and still we talk about Juvenalian satire versus Horatian and still they ask me things like, “Professor M, which one could we use for what’s happening right now?” And I tell them to use anything. Do anything, form ideas, write so hard your pen tears the paper. Write like it will save you. And do not be shy or spare your words. This is not a time for sparing the truth.

I find emails in the morning thanking me for not abandoning them. And I am trying not to as they quarantine further and further into uncertainty in their various isolated corners of the country. I am having a hard time.

Many of my closest people who know me best have said, “You should write about this.” But write about what? I cannot form good words for a better picture and I have no tools. I have written these words here but these are not anything. They are that viscous jello. I have no meat, and it’s what I need to make the sandwich. I have no bread. A writer needs tools and meat and bread to fix their picture. A writer needs substance. Through the spaces between the pandemic, where I sit in my home and nothing and everything simultaneously happens around me and there's the ukulele across the hall, the man snoring above, and the loud cackle and cough of the pot smoker below, I experience reality through a television, a computer, a phone, all of the screens—hell, a writer needs and needs and needs. So what do we even write about?

I am having a hard time, so maybe it’s time to make some lists.

Yes that could be it. Is that the primary task of the writer right now? In a time so uncertain and cut into fragments and alternating anecdotes of face mask shortages and naval medical ships sailing into New York... mixed with anecdotes of swans returning to the canals in Venice and Italians playing paddle ball through their neighboring living room windows on the fifth floor of a Milanese apartment block... mixed with conflicting narratives of bat soup and biological weapons and labs gone awry in Wuhan... mixed with narratives of my asian students getting on the subway and half of the car emptying out to move into the next one over—I could make those lists, and they’d be floor-to-ceiling long full of death and small miracles. But is this writing? And what good does a list of fragments do? I’d could make them and then all I’d have is a fridge full of mandarin oranges, chicken sausage, a rainbow of produce, a pot of turkey chili, and 7 ½ rolls of toilet paper, and shoes by the door that I’m starting to forget the feel of on my feet and one furry feline who’s liking the company, and those three screens. And I’d have a list.

And I could write an article about any of the above, but say what? I am no expert of economy, and I am no expert of medicine. And even those experts write and write and disagree and those jello-truths in their articles will mutate into an old once-upon-a-time-truth-now-a-lie by—when? 2 days? 3 days? 12? 38? 82?

And I could write a story or a poem but this material... it would be crude and uncouth. It’s like plucking a unripe pear from the vine and biting down hard. It’s bitter and unyielding. This story, the Corona story, will chip your tooth on the sheer steeliness of its rock hard vanity. It’s not time to write those stories. Those stories need to be left alone. I’d rather write about something like the swans. But that’s not my story to tell either so I'll just write messes like this.

I am having a hard time and the words are too.

I Am Having a Hard Time: Trying to Write in the Time of Corona

I’m having a hard time.

And, specifically, I’m having a hard time forming words. I’ve had many people in the past week and a half talk to me about themselves and still the words don’t fit together enough for me to make sense of them. They slide apart like jello. My people talk in harried voices about their children and their parents. Their worries for both. Their fathers who refuse to cancel their tee times for a full round of 18. Their husbands who have gone to the stores five days in a row. Their sons who still flew to Spring Break. And they send me pictures of empty pasta aisles in their markets. They call me crying because their sisters are pregnant and due in three weeks. They talk about their jobs, or now lack thereof. They talk about the monitors they’ve set up on their dining room tables to work from home. They, individuals with 3 different degrees and acclimation to a six figure salary, are filing for unemployment.

And they call me to ask if I heard about the two new employees at the university who've tested positive. And sometimes my people tell me they are annoyed with it all. Sometimes they tell me they are not worried and no one else should be either.

And most often they tell me strained stories through raw throats about jobs they still must go into. Because my family is full of healthcare workers and it makes me fucking nauseous. They talk about the closeness of being furloughed. Some of their colleagues already have been. They talk of private practices unable to pay their docs and nurses. They talk of competitions to stitch makeshift face masks together. They tell me of colleagues moving their parents out of their homes and in with each other because they are a danger to their loved ones. They talk about not working in the ICU—for now—but they could. They talk about the ICU where patients are no longer exclusively in their 60s and above. They talk about the patients who are starting to fill the ICUs and the landscape is looking a little different, now. They are talking about the people in critical condition that are my age. They are in the middle of it. They are still going.

I am having a hard time.

My life is full of educators. They speak of being cut off entirely from their students, their kids. They speak of pushing through in the name of knowledge. In the name of seeing the semester through. They conference with me through Zoom and Google Hangouts and WebEx. They admit to me, their student, that they are treading water. And so am I. My inbox is full of my own students. They cannot connect to their wifi and their mother has cancer and she is sick right now and they are so terribly sorry but they cannot be present for my lecture on satirical writing forms. They will get the notes from someone else. And I tell them not to worry about it and I mean it. No one is checking to see if I am upholding anything. No one expects me to. I might just give them all As and openly fight anyone who poo-poos it. They are studying, dedicated, through a pandemic. They still show up on my computer screen. They still ask questions. They still laugh at my attempts to relate and they write to me and they show curiosity and awe at their own understandings. And still I lecture and still we talk about Juvenalian satire versus Horatian and still they ask me things like, “Professor M, which one could we use for what’s happening right now?” And I tell them to use anything. Do anything, form ideas, write so hard your pen tears the paper. Write like it will save you. And do not be shy or spare your words. This is not a time for sparing the truth.

I find emails in the morning thanking me for not abandoning them. And I am trying not to as they quarantine further and further into uncertainty in their various isolated corners of the country. I am having a hard time.

Many of my closest people who know me best have said, “You should write about this.” But write about what? I cannot form good words for a better picture and I have no tools. I have written these words here but these are not anything. They are that viscous jello. I have no meat, and it’s what I need to make the sandwich. I have no bread. A writer needs tools and meat and bread to fix their picture. A writer needs substance. Through the spaces between the pandemic, where I sit in my home and nothing and everything simultaneously happens around me and there's the ukulele across the hall, the man snoring above, and the loud cackle and cough of the pot smoker below, I experience reality through a television, a computer, a phone, all of the screens—hell, a writer needs and needs and needs. So what do we even write about?

I am having a hard time, so maybe it’s time to make some lists.

Yes that could be it. Is that the primary task of the writer right now? In a time so uncertain and cut into fragments and alternating anecdotes of face mask shortages and naval medical ships sailing into New York... mixed with anecdotes of swans returning to the canals in Venice and Italians playing paddle ball through their neighboring living room windows on the fifth floor of a Milanese apartment block... mixed with conflicting narratives of bat soup and biological weapons and labs gone awry in Wuhan... mixed with narratives of my asian students getting on the subway and half of the car emptying out to move into the next one over—I could make those lists, and they’d be floor-to-ceiling long full of death and small miracles. But is this writing? And what good does a list of fragments do? I’d could make them and then all I’d have is a fridge full of mandarin oranges, chicken sausage, a rainbow of produce, a pot of turkey chili, and 7 ½ rolls of toilet paper, and shoes by the door that I’m starting to forget the feel of on my feet and one furry feline who’s liking the company, and those three screens. And I’d have a list.

And I could write an article about any of the above, but say what? I am no expert of economy, and I am no expert of medicine. And even those experts write and write and disagree and those jello-truths in their articles will mutate into an old once-upon-a-time-truth-now-a-lie by—when? 2 days? 3 days? 12? 38? 82?

And I could write a story or a poem but this material... it would be crude and uncouth. It’s like plucking a unripe pear from the vine and biting down hard. It’s bitter and unyielding. This story, the Corona story, will chip your tooth on the sheer steeliness of its rock hard vanity. It’s not time to write those stories. Those stories need to be left alone. I’d rather write about something like the swans. But that’s not my story to tell either so I'll just write messes like this.

I am having a hard time and the words are too.