Writers tend to work mostly in their home office, sitting at a computer, with books and papers scattered hither and yon around them. I normally spend the majority of my day that way, banging away on the keys or with highlighter and pen in hand, going over books and printed articles about my topic, the Donora Death Fog.
Normally.
Now is not a normal time. Now is the time of coronavirus, when we’re all practicing social isolation and washing our hands like Howard Hughes wannabes. Me, I don’t mind. I’m normally home anyway, and I tend to wash my hands frequently through the day. I still have to get up and down all day to let the dogs in and out. (For cryin’ out loud, Lola, you just went out!) So my days aren’t terribly upset.
But my mind is. I am, at this age, what many people would call “old.” I don’t call it that, I call myself “highly experienced.” So there.
I know that this virus affects older people more harshly, as most viruses do, and the mortality rate for us is significantly higher than that for younger folks. I don’t have any pulmonary issues, thank goodness, but I’m not as strong as I used to be either. I know that if I contract coronavirus I’ll probably get whacked pretty hard. It’s possible I’ll even die as a result.
So as I sit in my chair, working on my book, those kinds of thoughts pass through my aging head regularly, all day long. Not constantly, but enough so I feel their weight.
Still, I’d rather be home writing, with my wonderful wife home as well, than anywhere else. And for that I’m grateful.
