What now?

So. It’s kind of over. Kind of, but not really. Evidence for both camps of thought are around, the youth and even those - like myself - who are no longer in the ‘youth’ category are getting out and mingling. Public transport is getting busier, strangers sitting closer in proximity to one another rather than standing for their journeys.

Still, many cling to the comfort of mask-wearing and still watch their fellow Homo sapiens warily, as though they can somehow tell by looking at them that they might possibly be contagious, carrying the omnipresent shadow of Covid that has brought many temporarily low and killed others.

Like any event or significant upheaval, the mind, especially in those of us who are older and more acutely aware of time, reflects. For the budding writer, the first lockdown - there were three lockdowns here in the UK - was a dream come true.

After the initial excitement of getting a paid ‘holiday’ and then the crushing realisation that there was not much one could do outside of the home with the extra time, people, stripped of the identity of their jobs, turned to their dreams.

The first lockdown was easily my most productive on Vocal and writing in general. The notion of blowing up on Vocal - yeah, I wanna and so do you! - through a volume of output or finishing that long-gestating novel, - pretty sure we all have one - it going supernova and hanging out with JK - Rowling, not Jamiroquai - and topping bestseller list around the world. That was the dream.

Obviously, that did not work out. The reasons and excuses are many and just that; excuses. There are other factors - excuses - that impacted the writing. The lockdown saw a surge in people finding their inner artist.

Aside from the famous people who, it seems, all had children’s books waiting to print, a deluge of people popped up on local news, inspirational or irritating, depending on one's point of view. These people would show off their newfound baking skills, sewing abilities or an entrepreneurial spirit as they grew businesses out of thin air.

As if that was not enough, there were the smart alecks - my inadequacies are showing…- who learned Japanese or Urdu, studied brain surgery, built a billion-pound business or became an astronaut in the eighteen months the world went into limbo.

I cannot be alone in this tentative, post-pandemic, world, where many of the goalposts have moved, who is trying to change their life. The uncertainty of the employment landscape has forced so many into a rethink. A job for life was already a notion lost to generations past. Now, a job for a season would be nice.

Like many, the dream would be to earn a living writing or creating stories but the reality is that the best monthly return I have had since being on Vocal has been around seventy dollars - less when converted to the British pound.

With that sort of earning power, the vision of an impoverished artist would quickly become a reality. Even as a ‘side hustle’ - oh, those popular two words uttered by every social media ‘influencer’! - it barely covers a month’s worth of coffees. Luckily, I don’t drink coffee.

The day job remains. Entrepreneurial talent is not a trait I have been blessed with. Still, the frustration of working for another, the minutes of my life ebbing away - a bit of a morbid vision that - as the world fights to get back to normality eats at me.

The re-opening of venues, eateries and drinking establishments, has seen people, in another pleasant summer, getting out in vast numbers. Schools have broken up for the holidays and the vast majority are trying to act as if the cloud of Covid is lifting, which to an extent, it is. They want to do all the things and have the freedoms they felt before.

What to do? Keep writing I suppose. There is no other option. That’s not entirely true, there is always the small chance I could win the lottery or finish the bestseller I am obviously penning. Hope springs eternal and if there is one thing every writer needs to be it is hopeful.