Creativity in the Time of Corona: What Does it Look Like?

I love writing. It is my refuge, my elixir, and source of self-worth. Rarely do three days go by where I don’t feel compelled to either pursue a work-in-progress, or crack into a new idea. For me, the norm is to have completed a new draft of ‘something’ approximately every four weeks.

But only four weeks ago (or has it been four months?), our world got kicked over, shattering and scattering the building blocks of our routine into oblivion, inciting anxiety and fear over our individual futures as well as the planet’s.  Symptoms of grief abound, as we lament what was, and stare into the abyss of what may no longer be.  And yet, our culture, be it social media, NY1, and well meaning friends, continue to tell us to “Make the most of it!” “Be grateful for this down time!” “Use the solitude as an opportunity to create!”

Friends texted me: “Great time to write!” and, “You must be writing up a storm!”

When I confessed to one of them, a writer with militant discipline, that no, I have not been able to write a single word since Quarantine Day 1, the reply was:  “But you have to. Don’t you want to look back on this time as productive rather than destructive?”

I paused, as conflict and a dose of guilt rushed in. By sleeping past 10am, staying in my pajamas, happy hour zooming at 3pm, and snuggling with my pup to quell an impending panic attack – was I sabotaging the opportunity to grow as a writer? Was I not appreciating the sabbatical which had fallen into my lap and could advance not only my craft, but potentially my career? 

I quickly realized, however, that no. I no longer had anything to prove to myself. I have written and completed what I started, and will do so again.  Yet I couldn’t even look at my various works in progress or the stack of handwritten notes I had previously carried around lovingly in my backpack like a writing baby bjorn.  The mere thought of approaching it instantly erects a wall with a huge "Do Not Pass" sign in front of me.

Why? What's the underlying reason for this sudden paralysis?

For one, the projects and topics that felt important and compelling before the pandemic suddenly seem irrelevant; their shine faded into the bleak fabric of the curtain that had crashed onto the world’s stage. 

Secondly, the cues that had previously inspired me have vanished. The subway ride downtown and walks through populated streets where I would marinate on an idea or allow my psyche to transition from one state to another. The stimulating conversations with fellow artists over martinis. The symphony of clacking keyboards at my favorite cafe.

I suddenly felt robbed of all the tiny, ineffable parts that made the puzzle pieces of creativity – particular to New York City - click together. To have to locate and then cultivate an entirely new, safe world of inspiration within the walls of my apartment was - and still is - overwhelmingly daunting.

Lastly, it’s occurred to me that career success and advancement is no longer a motivator. That carrot is gone (for now), and I suspect that it has less to do with the fact that business as we know it may change forever, and more to do with some kind of subconscious reluctance to adhere to my old mindset and the fuel that kept me chugging forward towards a visible and tangible outcome. 

What if the message, the reminder here, is that the measure of productivity as a writer is not about word count, pages, or a polished draft. But instead, it's about the stuff you can't see. It's about allowing ourselves to be absorbent; to feel, to hurt, to yearn, to fear, without "doing" anything about it. It's about just "being." Perhaps my inner self is silently and gracefully quarantining my creativity, cultivating it for when a new vantage point emerges in the world, and along with it, a fresh perspective that will demand articulation and authentic creation.

Pablo Neruda, in his famous poem, “Keeping Quiet,” illuminates where we are in this unknowable and precarious moment. 

Now we will count to twelve, and we will all keep still.

For once on the face of the earth, let’s not speak in any language; let’s stop for one second, and not move our arms so much.

It would be an exotic moment without rush, without engines; we would all be together in a sudden strangeness.

What I want should not be confused; with total inactivity.

Life is what it is about; I want no truck with death. If we were not so single-minded about keeping our lives moving, and for once could do nothing, perhaps a huge silence might interrupt this sadness; of never understanding ourselves and of threatening ourselves with death.

Perhaps the earth can teach us as when everything seems dead and later proves to be alive.

Now I’ll count up to twelve. and you keep quiet and I will go. [excerpted]

Inactivity is uncomfortable, especially for us driven, on-the-go New Yorkers.  We’ve not only been forced to slow down, we’ve been ground to a halt, emergency break style.  I’m hoping that as we acclimate to the new landscape in front of us, we can start to let go of what we were doing before, and even say goodbye to our old habits, lifestyle and priorities, and behold the new. 

For stillness does not have to signify lack of direction or purpose, but rather it’s opposite – action, evolution, and creation.