My output in terms of writing for ALA this past year is objectively less than previous years. I haven’t stopped writing. I still write every day: Picking at the novel. Sketching out ideas for new novels. And then when fatigue sets in, shifting gears to a short story or two.
That lack of reflection isn’t intentional. I want to write more about my life, but I’m unsure of what to say. I have passing thoughts that seem so interesting in the moment. But then when I try to write them down, they’re gone like waking from a dream.
I’m sure the Covid-malaise is partially responsible. But the last thing I want to do is write about Covid. I already dread the deluge of Vid-Lit that I’m sure is about to flood the market. Even in ten years I have a hard time imagining I will want to relive any of this. Not because it’s so painful that I can’t bear to look at it. Because it’s so nothing.
