The following was originally published at dearquarantinediary.com on March 19, 2020.
Dear Quarantine Diary,
I’m finally horizontal — on my bed, but not to sleep. I came in here to smoke and listen to my Spotify playlist I made yesterday called “We’ll Be Alright.” The playlist has ended, and Spotify is suggesting Lorde. “Writer in the Dark.”
Lorde’s breathy alto sings, “Bet you rue the day you kissed a writer in the dark. Now she’s gonna play and sing and lock you in her heart.”
I wore my pink concert tee, the one with “Writer in the Dark” in white, bold font, to my first workshop at Saint Mary’s. The song is sad, but it’s something I identify with. So the shirt grounds me.
My classmates will remember how I cried. How I tried to keep my eyes wide and open — not wanting to miss the knowledge bombs — despite the tears gushing out my eyes and down my cheeks.
“What does Lizette want?”
The first tear.
“What does Lizette really want?”
The waterfall.
In some way, my first year is over. Enough time has past since that first workshop that one would think I might have figured out What I Really Want.
And I don’t know if I ever will. Or maybe it’s never been one thing. I’m sure part of it is my wanting to know myself. But, after trying to be present on Zoom, trying to be seen and heard despite bad connection, I realize how much I need people. People who see me.
I want to be a writer. But I don’t want to be a writer in the dark.
Where the light is,
Lizette Roman-Johnston
