Six months into this pandemic, I’m realizing things about myself, one of which is how cautious I am. Some friends and family members assure me the country’s situation isn’t as bad as the media paints it and, in fact, is getting better. But as of this week, there are over three million active cases of Covid-19, and we’ve passed the two hundred thousand deaths mark. That’s…a lot. That doesn’t sound like “better.” So I’m still practicing social distancing. Though I’ll call and write to the people I love, I won’t visit or entertain them. My caution has strained a few of my relationships, and I feel badly about that. “This isn’t forever,” I’ll say and think, I hope this isn’t forever.
I seldom step off my property except to take long walks down my country road, but if I must drive somewhere, I wear a mask. My little car chugs along for these rare expeditions, fueled by the same gas I put in my tank last March. My children are remote learners this fall; my husband is home, as well, working virtually. We’re lucky. We are not essential workers. We can stick together. We can stay safe.
Isolated as we are, with each day looking very much like the one before, I keep thinking time ought to feel languid, perhaps drearily so. But no. And that is something else I have learned over the past six months. Time is whizzing by. At the end of every work week, I think, wow, already Friday.
I wonder if this expectation—that uneventful days ought to feel slow—comes from my writing life. Writers worry about pacing. They know too much explaining, reflecting, describing, or flashbacking can be a drag for a reader. I’m especially conscious of pacing when I’m writing with a young audience in mind. Kids often skim pages of nothing-really-happening-here exposition to “get to the good parts.” I figure it makes sense to not write those endless passages in the first place and save kids the trouble.
Pacing is the speed at which a tale is told, not the speed at which it takes place. Skillful writers control time’s flow, compress and expand it, skip over irrelevancies and expand moments of significance and transformation. A story might cover an entire year in the life of a main character or a five-minute encounter. Some of the short works I admire, like Orwell’s “A Hanging” and Kaufman’s “Sunday in the Park,” while focusing on incidents that, in real time, would last ten minutes, unfold in a saturated manner, with such exquisite tension and fraught details, that time seems to stretch strangely, powerfully—a slowness that paradoxically feels energized, volatile, explosive, breathless. There’s magic in that.
The surprising circumstance of the spanking pace at which my current quiet life is passing has made me conscious of the importance of aberrant events. A singular encounter or incident has the power to arrest time and enliven a day with a feeling of nowness.
I miss that feeling. I miss stuffing my little three-bedroom house with family, preparing and serving lavish spreads, and enjoying the ruckus my kids and their seven cousins make. I miss the last-minute “Are you free? Want to meet for a drink?” I miss getting dressed up and dining out with my husband. I miss poking around thrift stores and finding treasures. I miss road trips. I miss fun.
I’m living on fast-forward now. Someday (I think, I hope) I won’t be, and the special somethings that pause my routine and suspend time will return. I plan on doing a better job of relishing them when they do.
I know exactly how you feel — every Friday we get there and think, where did the week go? But I love how you’re thinking about pacing, particularly for young readers, and particularly with your own students working from home. I wonder what they think of the pace of their days, these days?
Wonderful, as usual. You’ve expressed so much of what I feel.
Thanks so much, Monica! We’re all in this together. I’m glad we can cross paths here–and on Twitter! 🙂
Thank you so much for reading and reflecting on this post, Anne. I’m glad you can relate! And thank you for the kind words. I think this surreal year must be leaving students everywhere dazed. After reading your comment here, I asked my ten year old about his thoughts on the pace of his days, and he said, “The days go fast, but the minutes go slow.” I thought that was cute. 😉
Wonderfully written and so true. Here it is October and it feels as though March was just a few days ago. I don’t really mind this so much. My days are filled with walking, swimming, baking, cooking, and reading. I’m content, but I too, miss the comraderie of friends and family. I’m so lucky to have my husband and my Sammie by my side.
Oh, Karen, thank you for reflecting on my post and sharing your own experience. It sounds like you have some wonderful and healthy ways to fill your days. I am with you on all of them except swimming. 😉 And our dear puppies Sammie and Mocha! They’re sweet blessings, for sure. xoxo
This lovely post makes me feel less alone. I, too, am continuing to be cautious in spite of pressure to be “normal.” And there’s still not enough time in a day to do everything! I admire your spirit, Melissa, and how gracefully you seem to manage your family and artistic life.
Mary, you’re so kind! Thank you. The admiration is mutual! And thanks for sharing this with me (and commiserating). Now I feel less alone, too. 🙂
We had six months at home together as a family—me, my wife and two daughters (aged 18 & 21), the elder home early from University in March as everything locked down, and the entire period felt like a blessing, a gift. Just us, together. But now my younger daughter is away at university (300 miles away) and the elder is about to start a job (at a local school). They’re restless for their adult lives to start, and so, ideally, it should be. I can’t hold them back. But I’m grateful for the gift of those unexpected six months when it was all of us—and only us—together again.
I wonder if many of the readers of your sweetly reflective piece feel the same way?
Oh, I bet they do, Malcolm. I’m glad you had that gift of time with your wife and girls. Thank you for sharing this!
A big YES to all this–pacing is writing and in life is so worth reflecting on. Like your commenter, Malcolm, I enjoyed the treat of having my boys home over the spring. It was a joy to be able to be together in the middle of the day, out in the yard, when we’d normally be apart. There was much helping my husband in the garden (we called it science class!). But my kids really didn’t take to the online learning–we’ve never been big on screen time–and so they were relieved to go back to in-person school in the fall. So far, so good, and we pray it stays that way. While I have some quiet time again, I do feel that the pace of life has shifted into overdrive with suspense and tension–and a loss of control, on my part. Like waiting for the other shoe to drop! Only, I have to remind myself that my kids’ school lives are not my story to write–and hopefully this will remain one boring story.
“And hopefully this will remain one boring story”–Oh, Rebecca, I couldn’t agree more! We’ve had our fill of suspense, tension, and plot-thickening. This lousy story has to end eventually! Thank you for reading and reflecting on this post, friend. xoxo