"A pleasant feeling": being productive in times of crisis

I am the type of novelist who likes to work alone, in private, and for a long time. Good ideas don't gush in my head as soon as I turn on the tap: they appear slowly, piece by piece, over successive drafts and revisions, shaped, molded, and nurtured for years.

In any case, that's what I told an editor last week, when she invited me to write something about the current global catastrophe with her European readers in mind: an approach to the matter from the United States, an essay on the pandemic, the quarantine and "what all this means". I added that it was very difficult for me to talk about what the pandemic means when we are still trapped in its first, and terrifying, draft.

"It's too early," I concluded, drawing on the typical novelist's alibi.

But I have to confess that there is also a focus problem. Lately, my days seem to have been radically shortened. It is a paradox: I have never had so much time to be productive and so little will to produce.

I feel exasperated by the concentration of my friends, by their ability to undertake hard mental work. I'm not proud of that feeling

My pre-pandemic schedule now seems like a whimsical and fun daydream: writing five pages in the morning, pounding myself into exercise, answering new emails, reading a novel. These days, when I sit in front of the computer in the morning and start writing, the temptation to check if I have received any notification on the mobile about the Covid-19 is irresistible. No working out until I sweat: anything other than a relaxed bike ride seems decidedly tiring. If I try to reply to an email, I often find myself clicking aimlessly, jumping from one news source to another like a windblown sheet. At home, happy hour starts earlier every day. Last week, my wife and I poured ourselves a couple of glasses of wine, and literally without the slightest irony, we toasted the intention of drinking a little less.

It is as if I have had to lower the difficulty level of my life in general a lot, and I am aware that other people are not reacting like this.

I surf Facebook and discover that different friends are doing amazing things and I am often envious. I do not mind admitting it: I can accept that sometimes, in moments of weakness, I am so petty to feel jealous when seeing the excellent creative work that my friends do during the quarantine, to feel bland in comparison, amorphous. I do not envy his work itself, but his ability to do it. For example, I have a cellist friend who is preparing and then playing on the Internet the most difficult studies in the entire repertoire of his instrument. Another, a trumpeter at the New York Philharmonic, serenades his Chelsea neighborhood every night from the rooftop. A violist friend recorded herself playing a five part rigodon. An artist friend hosts elaborate costume parties at Zoom. Some exchange poems with each other; others, works of art. I have a friend who is about to launch a damn magazine focused on post-pandemic arts. These kinds of things are everywhere on social media: Creative people are amazing, deep, intimidatingly creative.

In my moments of generosity, all that seems inspiring to me, but in weak moments I find it somewhat oppressive. In my moments of bitterness, it has given me to call it "the Creative-Industrial Complex of Covid-19". I feel exasperated by the concentration of my friends, by their dynamism, by their ability to undertake hard mental work in the midst of the crisis. I am not proud of that feeling.

I have changed my definition of what a “good day at work” is: instead of my usual five pages a day of writing, I feel happy if I get to finish a single one

Lately, I have not felt concentrated or dynamic. Amid anxiety - terrible anecdotes, a compulsion to read the news every ten minutes, concern for the future, concern for friends who have been infected and those with previous illnesses that place them at risk groups - I have changed my definition of what “a good day at work” is: instead of my usual five pages a day of writing, I feel happy if I get to finish only one; Instead of scrupulously replying to my emails, I allow myself to linger; Instead of reading entire novels, I content myself with rereading excerpts from my favorites.

Yesterday I found a passage in David Foster Wallace's The Pale King about a man who mowed the lawn in a strange way: rather than cut it all at once, I preferred to divide it into seventeen small sections, pieces or stripes, which I cut separately in the course of one or two weeks. He did it that way because he liked the feeling of having finished something and wanted to reproduce that feeling as many times as he could: experience seventeen little victories instead of a single major victory. Wallace described it as "a nice feeling": knowing that you have a task to complete and to complete it successfully.

As I reread that passage I realized that this is how I am managing not only my creative work during the pandemic and quarantine, but my whole life: focusing on small and "concrete pleasant feelings" like writing a single page of a new novel, Trying a different and exotic recipe, planting seeds and seeing how they germinate, talking to friends and family, cleaning the kitchen, watering the lawn, cycling at a speed significantly higher than my previous ride. None of this is heroic or great, nor does it answer big questions, nor is it worth posting online, but it does make for a nice feeling and I really recommend it.

Translation by Álex Vicente.

Nathan Hill is an American writer, author of the novel The Nix (Salamander).