As if to make up for my hectic October, I’m having an unproductive November. I missed the registration for the next PM course. I signed up for Nanowrimo and as of today, I only have 400+ words to show for it. One would think I should be inspired. There is hope in the air, with the outcome of the election across the border, two COVID vaccines on the horizon, this difficult year ending. I’d like to be jubilant but can’t overlook the reality of deep divides that are harder to heal than this pandemic. Typhoons raged back home. My family and friends back home are safe, thank goodness but many others are not. The series of calamities was just a blip in the international news. But this isn’t new at all. What’s to be expected now that we’re in the throes of the second wave?
On my writing desk are two pandemic-themed projects. One is a suspense novel, with an exciting concept. I have the tendency to Google the ending of the thrillers I’ve listened to (I have no such compulsion when reading general fiction.) Makes me question whether I should write a thriller, to begin with. Perhaps the idea of an unreliable narrator has gotten tiresome to me. My goal is to write a no-holds-barred protagonist, fated to be blindsided by the turn of events.
The other project is a short story, semi-abandoned because I attempted to write a post-pandemic scene. It didn’t feel right somehow. Should I play prophet and write on? There have been talks about the light at the end of the tunnel and while I consider myself an optimist, I approach the brightness carefully, feeling for bumps on the ground, cracks along the walls.
I called this a postcard because it feels like I’m writing from such a strange place. But it wouldn’t be nice of me to wish you were here. But I hope to see you, happy and well, on the other side.