Writing about writing

It wasn’t the chilly air or endless snow falling outside that made me cold. It was the knowing that for however long, I’d be stuck alone once again in this room, in this bed. Though my circumstance was more than most were blessed with, I selfishly wanted out. Regardless, over the last year and a half I'd been told remaining here would keep me safe, inside. But as time slowly went on, I began to doubt which was worse: isolation or infection.

The uncomfortable frigidity in that room eventually became an expected part of the loop of lonely days that began following the province-wide shutdown, which by then, was the longest the world had seen to date. The global virus had taken more than Canada, and I, could handle. And in a hopeless haze on one of those freezing nights, I decided to finally do something about it.

In a way, the change wasn’t really a choice at all, but more of a push—one triggered by what I can now guess was a form of depression and desperation. And the combination of those perfectly matched drivers resulted in a daring double-spaced document containing thirty-thousand words, written over just seven days. The unplanned novella, that came as a result, was messy. At that point, the typo-filled pages of fiction were nowhere near ready to be consumed, or even grazed, by anyone else. But to me, each one represented newness. Though, to be fair, there was nothing really new about writing for me. As an editor, who has worked in various industries for years, I'd become quite used to putting words to paper. But, not like this. This time, it wasn't about "work" or the desire for fake external validation, that usually only lasted a moment. The sentences I'd built during that week were written just for me. Little me. The version of myself I'd forgotten much too often. A young, innocent and impassioned girl cutting and glueing construction paper together to create a binding of her own to tell stories she'd felt connected to. A young, innocent and impassioned girl spending nights thinking up wondrous worlds she'd then pen, in a rush. A young, innocent and impassioned girl who didn't care what people thought of her art, because it was hers.

As I wrote during those blurred days, I knew the characters who came alive would become friends to present day and little me. The hours I'd spent craving physical connection throughout the dreary Ontario, pandemic-ridden winter would be redeemed through them. Maya, the time-travelling protagonist, Mr. Macy, the one-night love from another world, and Harry, the man who made the mistake that would change everything, felt like fun roommates I'd gotten close with over wine and cheese. And though they came from my head, they'd remain in my heart, tugging away.

While I realize that writing about writing is quite unoriginal, it's big for me. Because without it, I'd have lost myself. Not just during those unsettling days that COVID-19 ruthlessly brought, but right now, as I type. At this very moment, my city is almost fully free. Toronto has thankfully done the work and many have healed, both physically and mentally, in order to get here. And I am grateful and proud. That said, I am also lost. I don't recognize the woman I'd once been to the world just two years ago. I walk the same streets I used to, talk to the same people I've always loved, and even like a lot of the same things as I did before, but I am so different. I don't know how to navigate the unfamiliar familiarities I'm presented with and figure out who I am among them. Each day is a disconcerting battle filled with blessings. Because, how do I justify the anxiousness I feel when all I was given is good? I ache at the thought of those who truly suffer, while I sit here, thinking this is hard. Shame often comes when people act badly or recklessly, but for me, it is showing itself in times most would consider joyful, as I fail to feel how I should. Though the consistent coldness is gone, there is still pain in the process of melting away, drip by drip. And I pray everyday, thanking God that He gave me the simple gift of writing down words, to help thaw them out.