Quarantine Quashed My Creativity
But I did become fluent in British slang
“It is easy to see the beginnings of things, and harder to see the ends.” -Joan Didion, Goodbye to All That.
I started 2020 so excited about possibility. The previous fall, I’d traded cowboy boots for platforms, ready to take a hit of that New York freedom; and it was truly intoxicating. I’d walk through Union Square belting Amy Winehouse, or parkour off a bodega wall, and no one gave a fuck. I paired socks and Chacos with men’s blazers and called it streetwear. I once sobbed during rush hour at the intersection of 67th and 1st, and a friend texted me after: “Congrats! You don’t live in NYC until you cry in public and nobody cares.” Those first six months in the city felt like one long sigh of relief.
In woefully cliche fashion, I’d moved to New York to be a writer — and the place was brimming with stories. I kept little observation lists, like this one from a day on the subway:
I got to report on a badass dominatrix collective, and I finally felt solid enough to reckon with some old trauma. I also had two day jobs: tutoring kindergarten readers and bartending. The boundless…
