Claustrophobia

I’m sure this didn’t happen to you, but in living together 24x7 during the pandemic was clautrophbic. I was in trouble. Travels, adventures and events with friends and family vanished. ZOOM didn’t fix these though we certainly tried. With deepening angst, I dove headlong into what I do best—work. I finished my first novel. It was supposed to be an enjoyable, even page turning tale, but based on critical reviews, which I actually paid for, the book was not so good at all. I’d rushed in writing it and didn’t know the ropes of getting a book ready for publication. It required professional editing polish, more depth, and a “pick me up and read me” cover. It’ was best that it remained invisible to most readers.

A big mistake was that the hype about how easy it is to self-publish IS NOT TRUE. The process was punishing and overwhelming. It was a gushing firehose. Attempting to learn the process in weeks was a stupid move on my part. I was writing a novel when most people my age are playing with grandchildren. The most deadly mistake, however was ignoring my increasing sense of isolation, believing solitude would make writing easier.

I stopped writing, abantoned revisions for a second edition, turning to physical labor. I sewed quilts and pillows. Satisfying as the work was, uncontrollable inner forces drove me back to my desk. I began to repair, perfect and republish, but I couldn’t focus. Another story began twisting its way into my head. Thoughts ricocheted against my skull. Should I abandon the second edition of this first book? Should I rush a new book? I was a bomb, ready to explode.

My husband told me to relax, but I wouldn’t listen. I was moody and withdrawn. We were trapped together in rooms with no escape. It was a pandemic Bermuda Triangle. Shared household activities became segregated. He turned into the chef and I, the scullery maid. It eliminated arguments (except that time I slammed a metal mixing bowl on the floor) but moved us emotionally apart. No longer devoted companions, we became tired of each other.

Finally, vaccinations released us from homebound bondage so we escaped to Florida and welcoming family. After our return, the distance continued. I couldn’t sit still so I left town to find emotional resuscitation and brain recalibration. Seven hours and a mountain range later, I sat with the girlfriend who knows me better than I know myself. For over fifty years, we have comforted each other in crises, divorces, and career reinventions, all sprinkled with random outbursts of chaos. After listening to my pandemic chronicle, she said, “Good god, girl! How can you continue to believe that to live you must work? At our age, we should enjoy who we’re with and life around us.”  

“I love to write. It’s a passion and I enjoy it.”

“I know, but I speak from experience," she said. "Neither you nor your husband will survive forever, so embrace each other before you’re really alone. The work, your writing, will take care of itself.”

That night I tossed and turned until her words drilled through my skull. The pressure vanished, giving my thoughts a chance to reorder themselves. The novel’s second edition doesn’t need to be rushed. A second book, if there is one, can wait until next year or even the one after. My purpose is not fame, but to revel in the writing itself. If people like my stories, that’s good, but unnecessary. I woke in the morning refreshed, with my priorities back in order.

Now home, I’ve purchased my sweetheart a new wedding ring (he lost his years ago) and booked a historic inn for the end of July in a place we’ve never been—Niagara Falls—to celebrate his birthday and each other.

Sometimes it takes distance to eliminate distance.