I couldn’t write when the pandemic started. I planned it, even carted my computer with me to our Spring Break trips.
But once the lockdown was in place I couldn’t: no sleep, constant worry. Especially since the week before I’d flown to Cleveland and back.
Once spring break was over I focused solely on the yearbook. It was awful to do the work from home, but looking back, I’m thankful I had the distraction.
I thought I’d get back to my steamy hockey romance after the book was done, but no. Instead I fought on Facebook with people who said masks were dumb and COVID wasn’t that bad.
Then the protests against police brutality started.
I watched the news for hours.
School was done, summer break started and I was stunned day after day by what I was seeing play out on screen.
I’d written some words. Not a lot, but my writers group met on Zoom pretty often so I had some. And I had the complete novel plotted.
And in the midst of the madness I decided I wanted to remember a different time, a different place. I wanted happily ever after.
I couldn’t get that on Facebook or twitter. I couldn’t get that watching police tear gas peaceful protestors. I couldn’t get that wishing for playoff season.
So I started writing.
And this morning at 2 a.m. I finished a crappy first draft.
My plan is to have it revised and ready to go by next beach season.
I actually plan to relaunch my writing career then. One women’s fiction a year and three steamy romances.
Wish me luck.