I imagined that one day there would be a table at a favorite coffeeshop where I would sip Americanos and nibble on scones and write. I would then be able to point to this table and say this is where I wrote these picture books and this middle grade novel too. Maybe I’d also have a stool and corner in a favorite bar where I would sip wine or the occasional scotch and write. I would then be able to point to this bar stool and say this is where I wrote this angsty-YA that has entirely too much of me on the page.
Instead there’s a pandemic and I’m on round 4 of Hong Kong quarantine, round 3 since the mandatory designated-quarantine-hotel scheme was established by the government. I’m in this particular hotel for the second time. There’s me and a bed and a window and a static view of a city where life is considerably slower now than before the pandemic.
My writer’s aesthetic isn’t quite how I imagined it to be. There’s no favorite coffee shop and no favorite bar either. Strangely though I can say that once upon a quarantine in this very hotel I finished the middle grade manuscript that got me my agent, I wrote a picture book that I later sold, and got news of an offer on yet another.
In this hotel, I’ve also participated in critique groups, virtually met with my co-marketing group the Picture Book Pals, collaborated with another author in a virtual brainstorm session, edited a co-authored book over FaceTime, and participated in my SCBWI Hong Kong critique group.
Day 7 out of 21. My routine is fixed and walk pad aside, rather sedentary, but I’m feeling creative and so I write:
Once Upon a Quarantine…