[There's always a story behind the story, right? Below is part of an article I was asked to write for Village Neighbors magazine. Many thanks to Mark Newhouse for the idea. And a huge thank you to readers who share my passion for the printed word.]
Think of that moment when your project isn't quite ready. Oh, it's close. One more step, and your dream will come true. You've devoted years to that dream. Given it your heart.
Maybe it was a college degree or a house you were fixing up. Maybe a patent for an invention. Whatever it was, that dream inspired—maybe even defined—you.
And then—
You or someone you love became blind, lost a limb, got cancer, developed PTSD. Life can be derailed in many ways, but whatever the form, you say goodbye to the degree, the home repairs, the invention.
My dream was to publish a novel, and I was on my last edit. This, after sixteen years of research, writing, and editing. Sixteen years voraciously studying the craft through workshops, critique groups, and conferences. Sixteen intense years. And the last edit was make or break.
What happened literally floored me. My legs buckled. My vision blurred. My chest constricted. Sometimes I couldn't even walk across the room. I had seizures—hundreds of them—that lasted for hours.
Not to mention brain fog. I'd sense the edge of an idea, only for it to turn to vapor, then, cruelly, tease back into my consciousness and dissipate again. Chasing it … chasing … Gone. No way to finish my book, not when words as simple as traffic or kitten eluded me.
Was I peering into the tunnel of dementia?
Turned out, I had long covid, an autoimmune disorder where the immune system consumes the very body it serves—heart, lungs, and brain. Some 65 million people worldwide have known this affliction. Many, like me, were previously healthy; many, like me, had only a mild case of covid. Long covid is different than covid and distinct for each sufferer. Some victims die; some recover in months; some, well, the jury's still out. Where did I fit in?
Long covid has no cure, but after hospitalization, I tried a slew of treatments: hyperbaric oxygen, vagus nerve stimulation, inhalers, anti-inflammatories, blood-clot medications, acupuncture, physical therapy, on and on, to no avail.
But then—
I'd have moments of clarity. Moments when I could amble from one side of the room to the other. Moments when traffic and kitten rolled off my tongue. There was one particular light-bulb moment when I recalled how the protagonist in my own book prevailed against impossible odds. Could I, like the character I'd invented, reach deep inside and do the impossible? Not using my old processes, maybe, but what if I did things differently?
If the old way doesn't work, find a new one.
So then—
I worked. Thirty seconds here, five minutes there. Over time, periods of concentration lengthened. Sometimes. But stuff got done. I worked and crashed and worked and crashed, over and over, until finally, the book was ready. The artistic process proved exhilarating, even as I chased those damned thought-ghosts. Even when all I could do was edit a single line. Just one more line.
Think of your dream. Maybe it gets derailed, maybe not. As I found out the hard way, every moment is a chance for enrichment through art. Whether you're a creator or a connoisseur; whether your joy comes from writing, painting, cinematography, or building a dollhouse; whether you're facing challenges or at the top of your game―art is power.
My long covid is in its fourth year. Maybe I'll recover. Maybe I won't. But I will focus on growing as a writer and a human.
My closing thoughts: Revel in music you love. Take in a museum. Buy a painting. Do that craft. And curl up with a book—maybe even mine.
