I’ve been a little off since last week. Covid. I’m better, but I’m off. Covid brain, maybe? But it feels familiar, like writer’s brain. 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.
- Work is easy.
- Work is safe.
- Work is prescriptive.
- Work pays.
- Words are risky.
- Words are dangerous.
- Words are unpredictable.
- Words might expose me.
The brain fog feels familiar because it isn’t just viral debris. It’s my body remembering that to write is to step outside the safe system, to enter a space with no guarantee of audience, reward, or recognition. Only risk. And risk feels like illness because the system trained us to equate discomfort with danger.
But the thing is, danger is the point.
I’ll allow myself the comfort of work for another day or two. Work is a nap. But when the weekend arrives, I’ll remind myself: my only real work is words. My words. My dangerous, unpredictable words.
And I’ll write. Alone and with others. Through the fog, through the fear. Because the system rewards work—but only words awaken.
©Pennie Nichols. All Rights Reserved. 2025.
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