A Lack of Focus

I’m working in short snippets because I have so little ability to focus. In the past, life before the pandemic, I imagined a hermits existence, with hours stretching before me, free to work without all those endless errands I seemed to be engaged in with all my time. Then suddenly that imaginary life became real and boy, was I wrong about how it might play out!

With much more time free and available to me right now, I seem to sleep walk through my days, only focusing on specific tasks when they are right in front of me—like planting seeds in the garden for future vegetables or cooking yet another meal. These concrete, physical activities are like anchors to my day, keeping me rooted. Otherwise, I might just blow away. At least that’s how it feels. I do the work I have to do and then . . . I drift.

The first month of isolation, I couldn’t even think about anything creative but in the last week or so, I’ve managed some little flights of fancy thoughts, many rooted in the past—my childhood—which I’m finding immensely comforting just now.

Last night, I finally finished a complete draft of a book I’ve worked on for over two years. But now I’m tasked with pulling together a proposal to search for an agent for it. That feels so huge, way bigger than the 250 plus page book I wrote. I think it’s a symptom of the pandemic.

Today, I finished this octopus sculpture that’s been hanging out on my work desk for weeks.

Maybe that is a start—picking up these almost done projects and getting them to the finish line.

And who knows, that might spark something in me and make this book proposal feel more doable.

Textile Octopus

It was a maritime disaster for everyone but the octopus . . .