I managed to catch Covid-19 at some point in late March or early April, and started showing symptoms on April 6th. I won't go into the situation in detail, but I'll say that the whole thing lasted about 21 days and it was the sickest I've ever been in my life. It got to the point where I just left the front door unlocked at all times in case I had to call for an ambulance. Fortunately the breathing problems never quite reached the point where I had to call 911, but I went a few nights clutching my cell phone and thinking I was on the verge of needing to go to the hospital. I got lucky.
In Mid-March, I'd started writing a new novel tentatively called Confessions. I'd reached the halfway point when the disease struck. Halfway for me is almost always 40,000 words. I was at 45,000 words, so I was writing at a really good clip, about 2,000 words a day. I'm at about 55,000 words now, which shows you how slow my writing pace has become in the aftermath of the illness.
The novel is a reflection of where my personal interests are now focused, which is writing non-genre realistic fiction. It's about a gay funeral director in his late 40s who has returned to the small KY town he fled from as a youth after a terrible incident in high school. Why has he returned? What does the town think about his return? Maybe the novel will get published one day and we'll see these questions answered. Hopefully I can finish the first draft by the end of June.
(Hey, I still write a bit faster than George R.R. Martin, so there!)