My day job as managing barista of a small coffee house that had remained fairly consistent for the last twelve years had been thrown into complete disarray. Uncovered shifts, whackadoo customers, and deliriously long lines I could handle. COVID I could not. Looming restrictions took a bustling morning hangout with whom I knew everyone’s name to a ghost town of to-go orders and social distancing.
My life was quickly reduced from four hours of bar time and a nearly limitless supply of kicking around before the kids got out of school and daycare. I now had three hours, customers bottoming out, and my kids’ idea of kicking around was quite literal.
Along with the consistency the coffee shop had afforded me, it was the relationships that had suffered the most. I was left with dangling stories of happenings in their lives, unable to put plot pieces together. As far as my own children were concerned, their stories were the same everyday it seemed.
“Shoot for the moon. Even if you miss, you’ll land among the stars...
Thankfully, one of my biggest creativity blunders came early on in the pandemic.
Along with being a poet, I’m in a musical duo where I write, sing, and whistle. Not that we had any gigs scheduled until late July, but we’re always up for a slot at said coffee shop when the mood strikes us. We do, however, get together weekly at the bar—which wasn’t happening now, either.
We opted for socially distant driveway beers, and soon talked turned to musician friends of ours who’d often swing through the coffee shop. Our compatriots were suffering now because all of the venues, travel, and money had dried up overnight.
Bands were now running gigs through Facebook Live on the pages of venues where they should have been performing. Even more seasoned veterans were posting videos to YouTube in an effort to bring joy to their followers.
April rolled around right quick, at the same time feeling like forever getting there. My bandmate had this idea to commit to covering a song a day—mostly his musical influences—but unfortunately some the two of us covered, and even an original.
I don’t play any music, but as a treat to myself (or so I thought) I figured if all these other yahoos were doing it, I could, too. Or so I thought.
...where you will be forced to drift aimlessly farther into the vast, empty abyss of space, until a lack of food, water, and oxygen causes you to succumb to death’s cold embrace.”
I picked up my phone the first day of April and went on a walking tour of the university campus on which I resided. I started taking movies of the landmarks that would be appearing in scenes of the book I was working on that took place there.
An April’s Fool was I. I couldn’t figure out how to load the video the first night, and I was spent after a half-dozen days, nine at most. I used a five-year-old cell phone camera that I couldn’t figure out how to correctly upload to any social media platforms. And honestly, how many people were watching this nonsense?
Turns out my bandmate (that in addition to being good at his craft) had stockpiled a number of songs before starting his month of creativity. He put the work in, and he succeeded.
Is this why things like Patreon, Medium, or even a regular blog so daunting to me?
But this push to create more work wasn’t only thrumming inside of my chest, a slew of media outlets in my circle were trying new ways to pair creatives with their audiences, and keep all parties relevant during such a destructive time.
My initiation into Facebook Live performance was marred with technical difficulties, not the least of which was the lack of “crowd,” further solidifying my need for human interaction. Though there were many people connecting to the live chat, there’s nothing like bouncing your words off a group of people in person, seeing their eyes light up in some sort of connection.
The next few opportunities happened through a Zoom-like website that featured a “host” that either introduced me and asked pertinent questions about my craft, or better yet, would pop in from time to time and direct the conversation towards noticeable outcome.
All in all, it helps to have friends to know what they’re doing.
At least the view is nice from up here.
It would also help if I knew what I was doing.
The existential crises multiplied. I could deal with not knowing what I was doing on the creativity front: that was a given with most projects. I’d already lain the groundwork for the video project should the idea ever grow legs enough to walk through again.
Every step I took along the path of this book, furthered my trepidation of the project: you see, writing a post-apocalyptic set where I live, DURING THE MIDDLE OF A PANDEMIC was something tough to stomach.
It wasn’t until my last two performances of the year in late June and early July that I think I found my stride. The ending of my book “Last 4th of July” takes place in the environs to where both of my livestreams were committed, and this was the perfect opportunity to try out some new time-sensitive material.
Once I was willing to get out of my own way and step off the precipice into the unknown reaches of the abyss, the story took care of itself. Not just the one I was writing, but all of it, including the one I was writing most intimately: the story of myself.
Plodding along with the novel-of-sorts is just as fickle as always. Some days I show up to the page and it’s a smorgasbord. Others, not so much. The story will be there if I listen for it.
Hopefully, some day, my readers will be able to as well.
*Title source: spaceplace.nasa.gov/sun-corona.
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