Covid writer’s brain. I know this territory, lived here for years. When I sit down to work (not to write), my focus is fire. I can write emails, code, work spreadsheets for hours without needing to crack my knuckles. Clear-eyed, awake, efficient. But I open my notebook and face the page, and I glaze over. My eyes blur, my pulse slows, my mind drifts into resistance.
However we label it, death is inevitable—promised from the moment we are born. But when it comes close, when it touches our own circle, we pause. We reflect. And often, we wonder: What do I say? How do I show up for the dying?
I started using the readings as springboards for stories and poems, and for the persistent main character of my current novel in progress.
The greeting—How are you doing?—is common. This question is expected. Compulsory in some situations. And polite. Or is it? Is it even real?
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