In January 2020, I announced my plan to have two more romance novels published by the end of the year. Well, it’s almost December and that plan is so far out the window it’s just a speck in the sky. I was sick for most of February—the flu, I think—and by the time I recovered from that, Covid-19 had changed the world. My husband and I, both having risk factors, were advised to shelter at home. We remain so today. While others, to varying degrees, interact with the world in person, we interact with contactless home delivery services. We see our family members through digital screens. It’s as though we live on Mars.
You might assume that such isolation would give me more than enough—definitely more than usual—time to write, and you’d be right. But enough time is not all it takes to create fiction. The pandemic coupled with the social and political issues of 2020 have taken their toll on my mind and body. So now, in addition to my usual bouts of fibro fog, I have the drowsiness side effect of an anti-depressant. I feel like I never fully wake on some days. Too many days.
We’ve all heard of famous authors who’ve written best-selling books under the influence of alcohol or drugs, but I’m perplexed by that. I require a clear head to write. So I’ve struggled to work. I try to write as much as I can on the days when my brain is fully alert, but it’s slow going. Now my goal is to have only one manuscript ready—for beta readers—by the end of the year … or soon after. Sigh. Life is weird on Mars.