“How to Write During the Apocalypse—and Other Sentences I Never Thought I’d Say”
Submitted by Anna Catalano
My anxiety has been screaming at me nonstop, at full volume, for a month.
It doesn’t take a genius to know why—COVID-19 has derailed everyone’s lives in extreme ways. And for those like myself with anxiety disorders on top of other concerns (like the hunt for the ever elusive roll of toilet paper), life has been a literal nightmare.
It’s unclear how much of my incapacitating dread is my anxiety, and how much is legitimate fear over the fact that I, as a retail worker at an essential business, can’t take part in the stay-home quarantine everyone else is doing (or SHOULD be doing, I see you in the shoe department recreationally shopping for strappy sandals, Brenda.)
Needless to say, I haven’t gotten any writing done.
“But if you don't finish all your writing projects now,” my traitor brain screeches, “then you could get sick and die with a list of unfinished things! Also, please focus exclusively on what I just said about the very likely possibility of dying! Alone! And in agony! And if your friends get sick and die it’ll be your fault!”
As if I wasn’t putting enough pressure on myself, now I have a tangible deadline. And then there’s the people who wax poetic about using ALL this FREE time to be PRODUCTIVE.
Finish that novel. Take online classes. Read. Cook weird cool things. Do some much-needed self-care.
Because nothing says relaxation like the imminent threat of annihilation, am I right?
How am I supposed to get into a creative headspace when every molecule in my body is constantly screaming in terror?
“Others are doing it!” screams my brain. “You’re not special! Everyone is stressed but getting their shit done—you’re just making excuses like always and soon you’re going to die and what have you accomplished?”
It feels like a cartoon, where the world is exploding around me and here I am, desperately trying to maintain normalcy in the foreground--the butt of the joke.
Writing, though rarely easy, has always been a constant—where I can disappear into my stories instead of reality. But even if I live through this pandemic—does anything I’ve been working on still matter?
Is the virus going to care if I wrote another chapter of that paranormal apocalypse novel (which is hitting just a little too close to home)? Is death going to care about the short stories I still want to write?
Cue the “what is a legacy?” interlude from Hamilton.
So I haven’t been “productive.” I haven’t written. I haven’t read any books. I definitely haven’t done any cooking, not that I ever did before.
The time I can actually stay home rather than brave the retail hellscape is spent avoiding the news. They’re spent rewatching The Untamed on Netflix and escaping into beautiful, gay Chinese fantasy-drama.
I’m sure there’s a thesis in there somewhere.
Even if keeping calm is no longer an option, we must continue to carry on.
Screaming and crying.
But carrying on.
Aspiring novelist. Analyzer of film and English literature. Feminist. Lover of Shakespeare, high fantasy, and pizza.