A few days ago I had cause to think about interviews. I had to accept that I have slowed down, rather.
Where once there was no stopping me, and I did more author interviews than I could comfortably transcribe and publish within a sensible time scale, I am now doing nothing. Or close to. There is the odd Q&A with authors, but even that is more odd than regular.
For the same reason as my above cause to think, I re-read an interview from the past, just to see what it was like. Did I think it was any good and would I do things differently now, and so on. I was fairly satisfied, and almost determined there and then to plan my next one and to make it happen.
And then I thought one step further, and realised why there will – most likely – not be any interviews right now. Who would meet me, and where? And would I be willing to meet them? (No one, nowhere, and possibly not.)
I’ve been ‘fine’ with no events and no ordinary meetings with authors, even if it does make me bored, not to mention boring. But the thought that face-to-face interviews are a thing of the past; that was just too much.
Or maybe, someone who is geographically not too far away, and who might not object to shouting answers across the length of a café or bar, or meeting on some park bench. Just maybe. In fact, I suppose my own garden is still legal. Cold, and maybe damp, but permitted.
Maybe I should. I even bought a guest bottle of hand sanitiser yesterday, to keep by the front door. Just in case. And unicorn slices. Not right inside the door, but available.