Two years ago I was working on a novel, until my beloved husband decided (well maybe that’s a bit unfair) to have three mini-strokes all on the same day. It kind of brought my writing to a halt and that whole summer was devoted to looking after him – making sure he took his medication, preparing healthy meals and accompanying him on gentle walks.
I consider my story to be a worthy tale, taking place in the Liverpool slums of the mid-1800s during the tragic Irish potato famine, and what I really enjoyed writing were the parts that involved bloody and gruesome crimes, slavery, prostitution and political riots – not exactly a cosy read, but the main protagonist does have an epiphany, so noble cause it is. It practically consumed all my waking thoughts. I had a pretty well-developed outline and the characters became my constant companions. I’d accomplished about a third of the story. However, hubby’s wellbeing had to take priority – no question about it.
Fast forward to March, 2020 and he’s recovered well, thanks be to God. Then came Covid-19 and days of social distancing and lockdown. What better time to re-start work on my novel.
That’s what I thought! Now, some weeks later, my novel remains untouched on Word. I hadn’t reckoned on the effect that the virus situation would have on my structured routine. Did I seriously imagine that I could amble my way up to the attic room every morning and click away on the laptop? No, life is now spent on extended breakfasts of tea, toast and jam, then coffee and, a bit later on, more tea with biscuits. While my manuscript has not grown, my waistline has. Oh woe, and it was too big to start with! Then, of course, there are the hours spent in front of the telly listening to the daily Government briefings, which doesn’t do much to aid concentration when wanting to get busy writing. I can just about manage a shopping list for hubby! Once again my brain has turned to mush and we’re living in limbo once more.