I, like so many others, am sequestered at home. As a writer, this is not actually a bad thing, nor is it unusual for me to spend days on end locked up in my home. I no longer have a full time job to go to, I don’t have to go to a client’s office to conduct workshops or consult with management any more. I live on my retirement income and the proceeds from book sales. I expect book sales to drop as more and more people end up losing their jobs. They are not going to spend a lot of money on pulp fiction, nor would I want them to. I want my current and future readers to spend their money on the essentials to keep them safe and sound.
Most of my concerns are for those who have the virus and succumb to it, for their families and friends. I worry about those who have the disease and transmit it unknowingly to people they love. I worry about my sisters who both work in a hospital and are at much higher risk of coming into contact with someone who is infected. I worry about my children and their families, who are trying to go on with their lives. I worry about my grandchildren whose lives have been turned upside down by the school closures, the isolation from their friends.
But my grandchildren live in the age of computers. They live on their iPads; they use computers all the time, so distance learning is not a novel concept for them. They will easily adapt. My children have jobs that are relatively safe, jobs that can be done remotely, though one of my daughters works in the grocery business. My other daughter is an artist and finds the forced isolation no problem at all. As long as she has her paints and canvas.
I should use this time to write. But instead, I use it to worry. But those closest to me are all safe, at least for now. So my dread is reserved for people I don’t know, but still care about.