So...how things have changed.
I thought it would be a good idea to back up all my work to hard copies, and stored them neatly in boxes in the closet. Then there was the fire. There's no point in going into all of it -- I'll just point out that computers melt and paper burns and that is all that there is. Save your work to the cloud, people. It seemed for a moment, like the worst thing. Years of work turned to ash.
And didn't I have my perspective adjusted. Welcome to the Age of Quarantine. Somehow, we are simultaneously all in this together, and terribly, terrifyingly alone. I remember the H1N1 epidemic, but it was so much less than this.
I think about writing horror in these days when the horrors are real, when there are real monsters in the closet and under the bed, and wonder if I shouldn't lighten it up as I am trying to recall and rewrite the work that was lost. I've decided not.
I think we love the monsters we can manage. My fictional disasters are overcome, so that even death cannot completely sever the slender bonds of love, and the good guys always win, even against the unspeakable. Maybe that's why we love fiction. Do writers have an obligation to create happy endings in days of darkness? I'd say no artist is ever bound to uplift, but maybe it's something to consider more seriously now that the shadows have settled around us like wet blankets on a winter night. Spring is here, but we hardly feel it.
I hope you all are well, and looking after each other. These days will pass, sooner or later, and we will recover. We may be better and stronger when it is over, if we try. That's what I'm hoping for, at least.