Isn't it ironic?
It’s March 2020 when I get this call... “I’ve got to put this project on hold until this pandemic is over!” Can’t say that I blamed her, but her statement took me by surprise. This client had been hell-bent on finishing her manuscript by early fall to get it out in time for the election. An admittedly aggressive timeline, but it was doable. And please define 'over.'
It’s September 2020 when I get this call... “I’ve almost finished my manuscript. I plan to get it over to you in the next two weeks.” That statement took me by surprise, too. This client had no specific timeframe for getting her manuscript done. But her pronouncement catapulted my brain into figuring out how I could make the six-hour drive to Long Island to pop a bottle (or two) of fancy bubbly, push back all the furniture in her living room, crank some neighbor-annoying music and join her in a barefooted happy dance. Because that is what you do when you finish your manuscript.
Isn't it ironic?
Being that it is now late September, this second woman author was in the enviable position that the first woman author so desperately desired. Isn’t it ironic? Same seven months. Same pandemic. Having made periodic check-ins on the wellbeing of all my clients, these two both reported being healthy and safe.
Don’t you think?
Thinking can sometimes get me into trouble that even I can’t get out of. I get crazy ideas that I think are fantastic, of course. And I had this crazy idea that women would take advantage of this stupid pandemic to write the book that’s been banging around inside them for far too long. I’ve lost count of the times I’ve heard words like yearning, gnawing, nagging, won’t-leave-me-alone-ing, gotta-get-the-damn-thing-written-ing. So I mistakenly get to thinking this is going to be great. A mind numbingly productive opening of the universe gift in disguise time to turn women into first-time authors at an unprecedented rate.
A little too ironic
Turns out I was wrong. Sigh. Turns out the women who worked on their books in the last seven months deserve superhero capes along with several bottles of fancy bubbly and barefoot happy dancing in their living rooms. It is a little too ironic that we had all this time, locked in our dwellings with not much in the way of distraction, and didn’t get around to writing our books.
But there was one thing I didn’t see coming: irony. The cruel irony of this pandemic is that it prevented us from just relaxing, from smiling, from simple joys to which we are all accustomed. It prevented us from spending time at our favorite coffee shop, or chatting with friends or strangers, and engaging in activities that spark our creativity and our want-to. This stupid pandemic became the biggest wet blanket ever; heavy and drenched with wetness, smelly, extinguishing damn near every spark that dared to ignite.
Some women, like my second client, don’t need as much spark to steady their focus and their motivation. I crown these women with the ‘I Kicked The Shit Out of 2020 Award’ complete with a snappy looking commemorative certificate and the honor of a few extra victory laps around the living room.
To the rest of us, I crown us with the ‘I Kicked The Shit Out of 2020 Award,’ too. Because our creativity and want-to are still in us. We just need a little more time to coax them back out from under the wet blanket that is this stupid pandemic. And when we do - watch out, world.
