When my book came out a few months ago, I got asked the same question at the end of every interview: “What’s next?” It’s a reasonable question, plump with the potency that we missed so sorely during the pandemic. But it always made me freeze up with discomfort: I had just spent 13 months without being visited once by inspiration or ideas, plus a few pre-pandemic creative slump months—for which I took a much-anticipated sabbatical cut short by border closures.
Who Are We Without Certainty?
Who Are We Without Certainty?
Who Are We Without Certainty?
When my book came out a few months ago, I got asked the same question at the end of every interview: “What’s next?” It’s a reasonable question, plump with the potency that we missed so sorely during the pandemic. But it always made me freeze up with discomfort: I had just spent 13 months without being visited once by inspiration or ideas, plus a few pre-pandemic creative slump months—for which I took a much-anticipated sabbatical cut short by border closures.