đź’¬ Guest Post: Love Connections in a Pandemic

So, hi there. It’s been a while since I posted anything new here, almost a year in fact. And a LOT has changed in my life, and yours, considering we’re currently living in a pandemic. 

During my time away I’d been working on a book and falling out of a marriage, then falling out of a book and trying to rewrite my life.

It’s been… a lot.

But in the meantime I’ve made new friends and forged new paths in writing and in life.  I wanted to share something a friend of mine wrote about living through a pandemic AND divorce. I’m publishing it anonymously, for reasons which may be obvious. There’s nothing shameful or secret here, but privacy is something I respect, and ask that you do as well.

Hope you enjoy it as much as I did…  

Love Connections in a Pandemic
by Anon

It all started as the world was shutting down. Schools had closed. Non-essential businesses were closing. Grocery store shelves were barren. The world as we knew it was ending.

Simultaneously, my Bumble account was blowing up. The notifications kept coming in, “We know you’re a catch – and someone else does too! Open Bumble to see who wants to meet you.” Huh?

bumble edited

Last minute attempts for a hook-up??? Perhaps. Lonely, bored singles looking for a connection? Also likely.

I scrolled through my growing hive (or what Bumble refers to as the Beeline) and found some choice matches. The convos started, “Hi Mark, nice profile. All stocked up for the pandemic?” In my limited experience on Bumble thus far, these convo starters, always initiated by the woman per Bumble protocol, don’t always elicit a response.

Not the case in Coronaville. The convos were rampant. Lots of back and forth, with many potential suitors. It was hard keeping up. On any given night it was easy to find myself in 3 or 4 conversations at any given time.

woman long dark hair phone

My married friends were baffled, my therapist amused. How could this be?! This was a fun and a necessary distraction from the crumbling world around us, but now what?

Apparently, it was time to up the ante.

As a newly single mother of many, I’m new to this online dating game. But, as boredom ensued, the possibilities started opening up. Sexy photos were sent. A staged photo shoot in my closet, hidden from view was a must.

There were some mishaps – don’t forget to turn off the live camera setting – it’s amazing what can be captured in 1.5 seconds of video. But, it was fun being sexy in what was quickly becoming an otherwise sexless world.

My married friends were presumably doing it – lots of jokes circulating about a 2020 Christmas baby boom. I wanted in on the action. Time to up the ante, again. Not sure how it started, but it didn’t take long to engage in what may have previously been perceived as raunchy or daunting.

Who knew simultaneous sexting orgasms were not only possible, but also addicting? 2pm in a pandemic world – why not run up to the bedroom for a quickie sext exchange?! “Hey baby, what are you doing right now cause I can’t stop thinking about your…?”

As I dove deeper and deeper into sexting and gained confidence in this new-found talent, I realized I wasn’t the only one. Glamour recently posted this helpful how-to article for newbies, but if you’d like to read some sizzling examples from the pros, look no further than Cosmo, of course.

With potentially several more months of quarantine and social distancing on the horizon, don’t let this untapped source of fun and distraction pass by. Take the first step, send that sexy photo or text (with permission of course.)


You don’t have to be divorced or single to join in. Send a suggestive text or pic to your spouse or partner. Quarantine doesn’t have to be torture 100% of the time.

My next adventure is audio recordings… what’s yours?

Feel free to leave your thoughts in comments below. Be respectful and kind. If sexting isn’t your cup of pandemic tea, move along. Otherwise chime in!


Speaking Up

It’s a cold and windy day. In so many ways, the world feels completely unhinged. Aleppo. Trump. Russia.

I stare out my office window, my fingers hovering above the keys. What to write? What to say? How to help?

We’re in the weeds, I said to my therapist the other week, meaning my family, my kids. Things are hard. We yell a lot. We yell about not yelling. In calmer moments, and even in the not so calm ones, I see the irony, but not enough to stop.

Yet, we’re lucky. So damn lucky.

“Aleppo!” I said to my husband this morning, when he asked if I’m stressed about the kids. “They’re supposed to be busing them out today.” Too little too late. Streets littered with blood and bodies. Children trapped in rubble, humans being slaughtered, saying their last goodbyes on social media.

The world is falling down, like the sky in the Chicken Little story I read to our son last night. But in some countries, it actually IS.

There is a rope hanging from a tree in our backyard. I see it from my office window. It dangles like a pendulum from a high branch. It used to hold a yellow wooden swing that my husband built over the summer. It was beautiful. But days later the paint began to swell and buckle. Eventually he took it down, but the rope remains. It hangs ominously. It reminds me of everything but the swing.


No liberty is safe.

I said these words to a friend and my husband a couple weeks ago while our children played. We were talking about abortion rights. My husband said of course Roe v Wade was safe. I disagreed.

For the first time in my life, I don’t feel safe. My liberties don’t feel safe. I’ve been sheltered from this because of my privilege. Being white, upper middleclass. I’ve spent my life in comfort, both materialistically and psychologically.

While I am Jewish – and I’ve been reminded my entire life about my religion’s persecution, past and present – I’ve never had cause to feel worry.

I’ve never been afraid of getting pulled over by the police. No one gives me shady looks or denies me entrance when I’m shopping. For the most part, I’ve managed to slide through the world unscathed, except for the whole being a woman thing.

I know what it’s like to be taunted, heckled, threatened. I know what it’s like to be demeaned, intimidated, attacked.

But still, I’m lucky.

The other day at my daughter’s school, a boy at lunch said that anyone who likes Hillary Clinton is weird. They’re in third grade. Kids. This is a boy I like, one who stood up for my daughter when she was being bullied.

I was surprised, and yet not. There has been chatter among the children. They repeat what they hear at home.

Before I could ask what happened next, my daughter told me that she spoke up. Used her voice. I gripped the countertop with both hands. “What did you say?”

“I told him it was offensive to me,” she said with a shrug and a hint of a smile. Like no big deal. “But I said it in a serious voice,” she added.

I was stunned. My daughter who is terrified of dogs, getting up on stage, and walking to the bathroom at night wasn’t afraid to speak her mind. To stand up for her feelings.

Squealing with delight, I gave her a high five. “You spoke up for yourself, and you defended Hillary Clinton.” I beamed with pride. So did she.

Want to know what my next thought was?


I was afraid. Because I know what can happen to people, girls, who speak up. How quickly and ruthlessly they can be cut down.

“What did he say?” I asked, trying to sound casual, bracing myself.


Relief. But she had another story to share. A different boy had made up a song about building a wall. She said it was funny, and started singing it. It was a song about a wall, and violence, all sung to the tune of Frozen’s, “Do You Want to Build a Snowman?”

I asked if she thought he was referring to Donald Trump’s proposed wall. She didn’t know. I told her not to sing the song, gently explaining how scary it could be to kids in her class with families in Mexico. How offensive and hurtful, even if it wasn’t the intention.

Words matter. Oh, how much they matter.

She agreed, and then asked me if she should tell the boy not to sing it.

My first instinct was a big fearful NO. I took a deep breath and said she didn’t have to, but it was up to her.

Clearly, it’s me who should be taking lessons from her, because the next day she spoke up AGAIN.

She asked him if the wall in the song referred to Trump’s, and it did. Then she asked him not to sing it. She explained what we had discussed at home. At first he laughed, and then he agreed not to.

“He could’ve been mean,” my daughter said thoughtfully, “but he wasn’t.”

I know that one day someone will be mean, but I can’t silence her preemptively. Out of fear. She is strong and brave. I will encourage her to speak up, teach her how to face both kinds of responses, and I will learn from her at the same time.

The world is coming apart at the seams. Our liberties are at stake.

And I’m through being quiet about it.


Links for helping refugees in Aleppo and in the world:



Links for battling hate and discrimination, fighting for our liberties:






Fighting the Mid Novel Slump

I never knew there was a such a thing. But a few weeks ago it happened to me. At first I thought it was just a moment of frustration. I hit a wall with my novel and had to take an unexpected detour, a longer way with a treacherous incline.

Suddenly, the idea that I was inches away from coasting downhill toward my novel’s ending disappeared. Poof, gone. I looked around, trying to orient myself, and realized I was halfway up a snowy peak with holes in my boots and dwindling supplies.

I started to wonder… was I wasting my time toiling away at a crap first novel? Should I cut my losses now and start something new, or shake off the doubt and trudge ahead?

Photo Credit: AraiUSA via Compfight cc

Photo Credit: AraiUSA via Compfight cc

(I’m writing this during a snowstorm, which is clearly influencing my choice of imagery, so I apologize in advance for hitting you over the head with my metaphorical shovel; but seriously, it’s a blizzard out there.)

So, I did what any rational person does during times of stress and indecision: I looked for signs.

Someone, other than myself, to tell me WHAT TO DO. Of course, this is ridiculous and a form of procrastination, not to mention self-sabatoge, but I looked, and of course I found plenty online. I was haunted by articles with headlines like, “Why We Write, Why We Stop…” and “In Praise of Quitting”. The first article by Julianna Baggot turned out to be uplifting (and filled with tangible advice, check it out), but the second nearly gutted me.

Photo Credit: coppirider via Compfight cc

Photo Credit: coppirider via Compfight cc

I know sometimes it might be better to quit a project that isn’t going anywhere, but the question that keeps me (and I’m sure, many writers) up at night is this: How do you differentiate between doubt and honest assessment? 

This crisis of faith made me a horribly grumpy person to be around (sorry family), and catching my son’s cold did NOT help matters, but fortunately I happened across another sign soon after:

Janice Graham on the Writer’s Midway Crisis

On the – Wha???

I didn’t know Janice, but I loved her immediately for giving a name to my problem. Midway crisis, yes, that’s exactly what was happening! Like so many problems (if not all), mine turned out to be completely unoriginal.

This made me giddy with relief. Whatever my decision, I wasn’t the only one stuck in this godforsaken place. Others had traveled a similar path and survived. Including Neil Gaiman, who wrote this wonderfully uplifting piece for National Novel Writing Month. Apparently, he feels this same malaise at the midpoint of ALL his novels. (Note to self, move The Ocean at the End of the Lane up to the top of my to-read list.)

In her article, Janice references Steven Pressman’s The War of Art, a book I had heard of but not yet read. He calls this particular ailment, and all its odious relatives, by one name: resistance. YES. A repelling energy that pushes writers, artists, creators, entrepreneurs to quiver with doubt and ultimately retreat. Resistance, or more specifically our surrender to it, is what makes us fail.

Soon after I read Janice’s article, my sense of equilibrium returned. I checked the window of my soul in regards to my novel-in-progress. The snow had lightened and the mist seemed to be thinning. My boots were still soggy and the path jagged and steep, but I knew now what I had to do.

Take a step at a time. In one direction. UP.

Photo Credit: zzzoz via Compfight cc

Photo Credit: zzzoz via Compfight cc

Now, I have some questions for you. Feel free to answer one, none, or all…

Have you any experience with the mid-novel slump/crisis?

Has their been a time when cutting your losses *was* the right choice for a project? How did you make that decision?

What is your experience with resistance or doubt, and how do deal with it?

I’m currently devouring, and loving, Steven Pressfield’s book, The War of Art. The first two sections have really resonated with me, but I’m having a little, ahem, resistance, with the last section which is about muses and angels (where he believes inspiration comes from). If you’ve read the book, I’m curious to know what you think.