The people I love are alive. That's the important thing.
I live in a state where the government actually gives a damn about the lives of its people, and the people actually care about each other. So for most of the year we have been able to avoid the worst of the plague, and, as I lost my job opportunity in March and went into a 9-month career lacuna, I had little reason to leave the house -- so I never really saw the plague happening anywhere. Some weeks I forgot about it entirely! I, perhaps alone in the world, was sitting pretty.
So when I compare my work this year to my work last year, I don't see a huge difference. Absurd fiction, essays mined from my Facebook feed...no poems or songs, this year, this was not a poem year for me. I think I like writing absurd short stories more anyway. But otherwise my output this November doesn't look much different than last November.
And yet, despite having the same amount of material to mine from Facebook as before, this year it was a hell of a lot easier to hit the 30-mode mark. I am not sure why. Maybe because I was paying more attention this time? Or maybe everyone else was posting enough that I didn't have to wait very long for new posts to push my stuff off the New Writeups table so I could post again.
if I decide to actually make a career out of writing fiction then this year hasn't been a total wash for me but I'm not going to cite this year as the reason for my success. Too much death all around. I don't want to sound like Jeff Bezos.