It’s About Us

I struggle most days, in the midst of this pandemic, to edit my next book, to prepare it for publication, to write the next story after this one. I rarely turn out more than a few hundred words a day and sometimes none at all. I have to ask myself: Why am I doing this? Why does it matter that I write? Why does it matter that I write this particular story?

For one thing…if I should die of this damn coronavirus thing, I don’t want to leave behind an unfinished manuscript.

But that’s not enough. Why is this story something I want to finish?

What is it about?

It’s about humanity. About all the things that may or may not be “human nature.” About our diversity and how diversity is the bedrock of survival.

It’s about a woman who thinks, because she is biracial, that she is nothing. And then discovers that she is everything.

It’s about people who hate and distrust and misunderstand one another and then end up needing one another to survive.

It’s about us.

I’m ready to launch Song of All Songs on August 28. I’m ready to tell you a story I believe in.

 

 

COVID Dream

I woke up way too early this morning—like 4 a.m.—and although I finally managed to get back to sleep for a while, I dreamed. Here is what I dreamed, along with my expert analysis of what it meant.

  • I dreamed that my bird somehow managed to dismantle her cage from the inside. Well, that’s obvious! Aren’t we all sick of being caged up and ready to bust out?
  • I dreamed that there was a big hole in the floorboards of my house. Representing the opening up of society? Let’s go with that.
  • My cat Mr. Bean was here! But given that he died nearly five years ago, this was obviously a zombie cat and so I’m letting him represent the coronavirus. (Sorry, Mr. Bean.)
  • The bird went through the hole in the floor, where she was caught by the cat. Oh, no! The virus is still out there!
  • I managed to drag cat and bird out of the hole. (Another lockdown??) The bird was okay, though looking sad, bedraggled, and frightened.

And the moral of this story is: Stay in your cage! There are zombies on the loose!

If you have a better explanation of this dream, let me know. Otherwise, I’m sticking with this one!

Pandemic Revisited

I’ve been thinking a lot over the past few weeks about the pandemic that I wrote about in my Recall Chronicles series. I think about how my different characters reacted to it.

One of them denied their symptoms right up until the diagnosis came back. It was just stress, they said. Or the altitude. That was all.

Other characters contemplated the relevance of political action under dire circumstances.

Montagne stared out the window and said nothing, his fists shoved deep into his pockets. When he spoke, his voice was heavy with sadness. “I know,” he said. “It seems like a lot of people are going to die of this disease no matter what else happens. Except maybe for the plutocrats who are rich enough to isolate themselves.”

But what if the plutocrats are a bigger problem than any disease?

Another character finds herself thankfully immune to the virus. And that became another whole set of issues. She and her friend decide to volunteer at the hospital, offering comfort to patients:

There were only a hand­ful of [immune] people who could work without the encumbering suits and hoods and we were issued badges indi­cating our approved status. Most of the other badge-wearers came from the ranks of lower-level workers who tended to sweep­ing, cleaning and trash removal. My heart sank, realiz­ing that in another week or so they’d also be removing bodies. My task was bedside care. I gave people water and helped them with their meals and their palliative medica­tions—analgesics, anti-nausea pills, sleep aids. I held their hands and looked into their faces. They seemed grateful to be able to see mine.

And then there’s the opening to book three (Flight of the Owl), which came from someone trapped in the misery of the ongoing pandemic (you’ve been warned).

September 11, 2126—She takes another deliberate breath and stares at the rigid form, dismayed at how inexorably her friend’s life had leaked out, bit by bit, thinking about how it will feel when the same thing happens to her. And it will hap­pen. If not tomorrow, then the day after.

Breathe.

She struggles against encroaching tears. Breathing is already hard enough. She fills her lungs with the oxygen her broken blood cells refuse to carry. Not moving around helps, not robbing oxygen from failing organs.

Breathe.

She considers opening the door and running away, run­ning until she drops. Out there nothing works anymore. Everything’s broken. Out there smoke hangs in the air, smoke from the fires. Not funeral fires. There were no funerals. She doesn’t open the door. She lies still, next to her dead room­mate while her own life leaks out, bit by bit.

Breathe.

The last time she looked in the mirror, she saw how her youthful face had gone pale and gaunt. The calendar tells her she’s 107 and she searches for 107 years’ worth of memories. She finds a few. In her mind she writes letters to friends and family, the dead and dying.

Breathe.

Dear Maggie – I just want to say how sorry I am that I stole your favorite eyeliner pencil. She hasn’t heard from Maggie in years.

Breathe.

Dear Uncle Bart – Thank you for making me memorize poems. Thank you for Dylan Thomas and ‘Rage, rage against the dying of the light.’ I have no rage left.

Breathe.

Dear Jonathan – How I wish you were here to hold my hand. I’ve wished that before but I never told you. I’m remem­bering a poem I wrote in college, one where I longed for a revolution. Everyone called it anachronistic nostalgia but you said it was good. I think about what’s happened and I think it had to be deliberate. I think this is our 22nd-century revolu­tion. I didn’t think it would be like this. Is this victory? If so, whose?

“Long live the revolution,” she whispers.

Love, Kate.

Breathe.

 

Scared

 

The population of planet Earth is currently around 7.53 billion humans. The loss of a few million to COVID19 won’t make much of a dent in that. But if one or more of that few million happens to be someone you love or someone who could have made a difference for a whole bunch of other people either through literally saving lives (because they’re a doctor) or through thinking us into a better way of being together (once we’re allowed to be together again), the loss is magnified many times over.

This morning I’m feeling scared.

I’m scared to leave the house because I really, really don’t want to catch this virus. I’m 71 years old and prone to annual bouts of allergies that haven’t been kind to my lungs. If I got COVID19 and had to be hospitalized in the midst of high demand for ventilators, would I be one of the ones shunted aside as too old to qualify? I just found out yesterday that about half of COVID19 patients who are put on ventilators die anyway. I found out today that about 20% of patients exhibit neurological impairment. What if I became too disoriented to call 911?

I’m scared for my son and my daughter and their spouses and my grandchildren and my sister who is older than me and her family and all of my elderly friends who have so much living still to do. I don’t want any of them to get sick. Hell, I don’t want anyone to get sick, but that doesn’t seem to be a realistic aspiration under the circumstances.

I’m scared for our future (and this gets back to the kids and grandkids again). How long will the economic pain last and will we have the courage to change some things that we can now see need to be changed, especially in case anything like this ever happens again? And it will happen again. Viruses are sneaky bastards that only behave in terms of their own survival and propagation. (Don’t be like a virus…)

I try to be positive. Really I do, but I can’t just turn off the news, because not knowing what’s going on makes me even more stressed out and anxious. Or guilty for feeling upbeat when there’s so much disaster out there.

I try to imagine myself in the picture above, high on a mountainside in central Tibet in a snug cabin, all alone by choice, with people bringing me food and drink every few days…

I’m actually in my urban condo. Alone. Not by choice. The traffic on the street has grown quieter. The food delivery people bring me groceries. I’m still reasonably healthy. I have a secure income. I have a place to live and plenty of supplies and conveniences at the ready. I have internet and friends and family and we check in with one another regularly.

But I’m worried. I’m worried about me and about you. And sometimes I’m scared.