Creative Writing in a Time of Pandemic

Yesterday, I put together a packet of poems.  I was struck by one poem, "Slow Oxidations," that had these stanzas:



I think of my best friend
in grad school who joked
about people writing their dissertations
in geologic time.
She went on to be a department chair,
a different type of slow oxidation.

I set out treats for hungry
students and say a prayer
for all the souls, the ones present,
and the dearly departed.

 
As I read the poem, I felt a stab of sadness that I can't imagine a day in the near future when I'll set out treats for students again.  We keep the student lounge locked to discourage congregating.

And then I wondered if I should even keep sending out the poem.  Does it work anymore?  I don't want people to read the poem and say, "Ridiculous.  What world does she live in?  That administrator should be fired for creating a place so favorable to disease transmission.

In the end, I sent it.  I don't think it's such a jangling disconnect that it disrupts the poem--at least, right now I don't.

I've also decided that it's time to return to my apocalyptic novel, which features an outbreak of flu that leads to the downturn of the society.  I will rework it so that it's the new pandemic, but in a future, more virulent phase.  I will take out the explosion at the White House.

These last few months have showed me that a pandemic is quite enough to spark the apocalypse and its aftermath that my novel explores.