Catch up on Garrison’s near-daily missives from New York, where he is sheltering in place with his family
The city I love is burning, people living in dread, as the result of having tolerated a police force that has its own code and doesn’t live by our ideals.
So much is strange in this lockdown but the overriding fact, to a Minnesotan, is that it’s summer at last, we’re eating outdoors, and we’re all in this together.
A blissful day in isolation, part of it on the terrace snoozing in the sun, mostly indoors working on the novel.
I draw no conclusions except that in isolation, one still needs social life and here it is in a dream. I haven’t been shopping since January and last night I enjoyed looking for pens in a drugstore in Dublin.
For the first time in a long time, I have a great deal of time, and I am truly grateful. Up at 6 a.m. and the day stretches ahead. The pandemic has given me something new — the 45-minute phone call.
Taciturnity is a privilege and I cling to it, as a writer. I need to think. For me, thinking and talking don’t go well together.
I used to fly around the country doing shows and staying in nice hotels and now, thanks to the plague, I get to observe my true love close up.
We have dinner and hold hands and say table grace, something we never did regularly before but quarantine needs rituals and prayer is a good one.
Something about my Calvinist demeanor makes people think I know what I’m doing, but every writer needs an editor.
I grew up cautious, eager to find a safe place in the world, and now, during the lockdown, there’s plenty of time to think about it.