My pandemic was pretty terrible. My dad died right at the height of it, in our living room, not from COVID but from old age and COPD.

But a creative project kept my head above water most of the time.

An indy film producer had noticed a serialized story I had published on Medium, about a close friend of mine who died of AIDS while we were both Act Up members in New York City.

He wanted (wants) to turn my story into a film, and he needed me to participate workshopping it.

So while my dad was dying, I poured over screenplay versions, marking them up and making suggestions. I sat in remotely as professional Broadway actors brought my words to life in a reading. I answered their questions before and after about their characerizations and about how the storytelling was or wasn't working.

Then we rewrote the screenplay and did it again. And it was wonderful, at least to me.

By the time we got it right, had my friend's death contextualized and wrapped into a satisfying conclusion, my dad was gone and all of us were beginning to realize the pandemic wasn't nearly ready to quit.

Those were really rough days, but art and creation filled me with purpose and even allowed me some contentment from time to time.

I know this. Without the pandemic and the trial of my dad's final illness, that screenplay would not have taken shape the way it did.

Do we all need a crucible to produce our best artistic work? Probably not, but that's a conceit that has, I think, at least some truth to it.