(Photo: My little writing community has been writing together since the 1st in a new program I’m calling the Chase the Light Challenge. I’ve been posting prompts every day to motivate people to start new projects, get unstuck, and otherwise write every day. One of the tools I’ve been using is a beautiful deck of poetry cards featuring snippets from the poetry of Lucille Clifton. This is one of those cards. I admit that the ones I love most I’ve been putting on my walls and at my writing altar. They make me happy. Lucille, by the way, has Maryland ties.)

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I don’t really like watching what everyone else is watching because I guess I have a touch of contrarian in me. I made an exception for Game of Thrones because we read the books and had to be there. I’ll probably write about that at some point because I have deep thoughts about that show and I have deep thoughts about House of the Dragon. Another time, another time. Anyway, I write this paragraph to say that I didn’t mean to start watching The Pitt yesterday. I really, really didn’t mean to. It came up in some article I was reading and I do know a bunch of smart doctor people who brought it up in conversation AND yes, I am old enough/young enough to remember Noah Wyle on ER and somehow the algorithm knows that. Ridiculous.

And since I really am trying to not doomscroll and the next Sumo Basho doesn’t start for another 13 days (AUGH PLEASE START SOON), I snuggled up to my husband, watched the shows we have been wanting to watch (Sakmoto Days for fun, Common Side Effects for omg so smart and I love it and that’s another post for another time), and then we had a little extra time, so The Pitt showed up on my feed and I was like, “Oh, I heard this is good,” and clicked watch.

Oh boy. Ohhhhhh boy. It’s everything that everyone said it would be. It’s nice to have smart television to watch right now. That said, it’s a medical show and there is medical stuff and it’s HB fuckin’ O, so if you’re squimish about visera and bone setting, this probably ain’t the show for you. I tried to protect myself from looking away at anticipated squishy parts, but there was this one time where a guy sets a bone in a dude’s face and there was like, no warning. I just gagged just thinking about it.

Here is the thing that surprised me and delights me and offers me writerly thoughts:

The Pitt is a COVID story. A real COVID story. And that hit me. Like, oh shit, are we finally ready to do this? Are we talking about COVID? Right now?

When I think about these past 4 years, I think a lot about the key missed opportunity to fucking talk about COVID. To do the collective processing, mourning, memorializing, and yes, metabolizing it. That part, the metabolizing of it, is the work of fiction. Actually, all of that is the work of fiction, and it’s work that can’t be avoided. I understand that some of that couldn’t be helped: first of all, COVID is still very present. We’re still dealing with every single wave of its wake. We haven’t been able to do anything about it because, well… it’s high tide for all things horrible and the waves just keep cresting over our heads.

And yet, realizing The Pitt is a COVID story struck me as both inspiring and urgent. I hadn’t realized that yes, I’m ready for a COVID story until one was brought to my attention and I couldn’t look away. Also: hey, isn’t it funny–the novel I’m writing is near-future, set in the 2050s, but you know what? There is a little COVID story in there. Because yeah, I have to process COVID, too… I’m just doing it with a 70 year-old character looking way back rather than a (50-something?) doctor looking 4 years behind him.

And perhaps I’m grateful for The Pitt because, shit, if all of the commentators at the newspapers I used to trust are going to keep doing election retrospectives highlighting that the liberals lost the story war, well… let’s spend these years, these challenging years, remembering everything that got us here. All of it. Because it would seem that we really do have some collective amnesia.

Tell me all the COVID stories. Tell me the ones where people die. Tell me the ones where people live. Tell me the stories of the suburban women who used to spend hours in their minivans and found themselves suddenly, deliriously, with nothing but “free” time. Tell me the stories of the restaurant owners who innovated and triumphed. Tell me the stories of the ones who lost it all and the husks of the restaurants still rotting in empty downtowns. Tell me the stories of the middle managers who logged off of Zoom, screamed out of their windows, took up birding, and found peace. Tell me the stories of the CEOs who couldn’t find empathy, couldn’t find humanity, and lost it all. Tell me the stories of the ones who realized that capitalism isn’t actually the point of any of this.

All of those stories can be COVID stories. All of those stories are COVID stories.

I really hope more people get The Pitt treatment: the teachers, the researchers, the school leaders, the moms, the truck drivers, the grocery story managers, the people who made all the air filters and the masks… the churches. Oh, the churches.

If you’re reading this, and you’re a writer, first of all: go watch The Pitt. I’m on episode 4. (It’s… not… you can’t… I don’t recommend watching them all in one sitting. I def had a “I’m going to die of a heart attack tonight” anxiety attack last night. Try to avoid that.) After you’re done, go start a COVID story. I don’t care the genre. I don’t care the characters. I don’t care the medium. Just go write it. Apparently, it’s the season to tell COVID stories. I can’t wait to read yours.