Writing in the Time of Covid

Writing has always been the easiest form of expression for me — and the most fun. I’ve used this medium since I was able to form sentences, crafting stories at a young age. I lived in a world of ghosts and monsters in early childhood, and children’s horror novelist R.L. Stine inspired me with his Goosebumps series. I basically wrote a hit novel (well, my fifth-grade teacher was a big fan…) called “The Creature of Moon Lake.” 

As a sensitive adolescent, I gave up on fiction writing and never really went back, but I journaled frequently, preferring to document my personal experiences and inner world. To me, the real world felt more interesting and my reading preferences shifted toward nonfiction. Over time, I experienced an ebb and flow in both reading voraciously and writing. The demands of school left me with little desire to read for fun, but I remained somewhat consistent with journaling. 

Even if I wasn’t writing regularly, I was often thinking about what I wanted to write about. It’s always been the same: I have an urge to document my experiences in life and how I move through the world.

During my senior year in high school, I began to consider journalism as a career (joke was on me). It seemed like a noble path with a chance to write about anything and everything. Little did I know how much I would despise interviewing people or how terrible I would be at it. My tendency toward introversion was not something I could overcome, so by the end of college, my writing interests shifted toward graphic design. I could still be involved with the journalism world, but I would instead focus on the visual side of it.

My first few jobs at local Pennsylvania newspapers were actually pretty fun — I was able to do a little of everything: design, edit AND write. My editors were encouraging and I got to wrote features articles whenever I wanted (hard news was never my thing….I found it to be boring and dry) . I even had a weekly art column where I interviewed local artists in the Poconos. But there were ominous signs on the horizon: layoffs, pay-cuts and reliance on freelancing all pointed to a rapidly decaying industry. I felt like I was running as the ground was falling out below me, barely leaping to the next job as the last one crumbled to dust. But the same thing would happen: rumblings of layoffs, an angry and demoralized staff began to look for new opportunities; talented, smart journalists who made major impacts in their community would permanently leave this dying world in the dust. 

It was untenable and I’m sad to have left it behind. Being able to write as much as I wanted, and choose what I wanted to write about was something I took for granted at the time. I had an audience but, unfortunately, it was when my writing was at its most cringeworthy.

The pandemic made me realize how much I missed writing. With more free time on my hands, I devoured memoirs and decided I had to start working on my own. So, years after leaving journalism behind, I’m working on a collection of essays I hope to publish someday. It feels like a monumental task, but one I’m extremely excited to bring into the world.