Being a creative during a pandemic is hard.
In the before-fore times, being in my home meant something different. It was relaxing, by default, and it wasn’t super important whether the division of workspace and recreational space was particularly hygienic. In other words, it didn’t matter so much if I watched TV in the place where I wrote. If one thing interfered with the other, I could pack up my laptop, hit the public library, and instantly create a new workspace elsewhere. Or if the opposite was the problem, and the idea that I wasn’t getting work done made it impossible to enjoy myself, I could go out and watch a movie in a theater. There were dedicated work and play spaces outside of my home, and my home could be either one.
With those options all but gone (America is reopening way too soon), I’ve created a slurry of work-play that is stressful no matter what I do. If I’m watching a show, well, I’m in the same place where writing should happen, so I feel guilty for not writing. The inverse is true, too, except instead of guilt, it’s constant temptation to do the easier activity.
This exists with the background radiation of normal existential dread, fear about covid-19, concern about the state of the nation, my mother’s ongoing health issues, and other things that I’m not even sure how to begin expressing.
I wanted to write something poetic at the end of this about the overwhelming desire to create hinting at resilience and overcoming adversity, but I just don’t know if I believe it enough to try to make it sound pretty. Mostly, I just want to take this week and figure out how to make the single room in which I exist with one person and four rabbits somehow have clear-cut lines between work and not-work.
How are you dealing with the pandemic? What are your hobbies? Let me know in the comments.