I haven’t written much lately. Not for work, not for myself. My son’s few paragraph-long stories for school have eclipsed my output of the last month, probably. Aside from a freelance gig and proofing my 33 1/3 book, I just haven’t been feeling it. Despite being home all the time, despite staring at the computer much of the time. And with each passing day, the not-feeling-it feeling has grown stronger.

This stalling out is a byproduct of the current state of things—all the things—without question. I’ve allowed myself that excuse for some time. But that permission hasn’t made my lack of interest any less frustrating... or pervasive. I cut myself slack, I feel guilty, I rinse and repeat. And I’m sure I’m not alone.

Yesterday, though, something changed. It was as sudden as it was unexpected. It was Jason Isbell talking about what his and Amanda Shires’ life looks like these days during an NPR Tiny Desk (Home) Concert.

“It’s been a little difficult,” Isbell said of staying at home through this pandemic. “We haven’t gotten to do the thing that we feel like we were born to do.”

Whoa. I paused the video at that point and let the performer’s words sink in. On the surface, Isbell’s statement was simple and straightforward. He and his wife (Shires) haven’t been playing with fellow musicians or performing for live audiences. For people who do that kind of thing for a living, that must indeed be difficult. It also isn’t unlike millions of other peoples’ situations right now—they’re out of work, or can’t work, or just can’t focus on any single thing for more than two minutes. (Raise your hand if you’re like me and two or three of those cases apply.) I get it.

But Isbell’s sentiment went much deeper than that, went far beyond not being able to take a stage outside of he and his wife’s barn or in an empty auditorium. He said that they can’t do what “we were born to do.” They can’t do the one thing they believe they are on this planet to do. They can’t fulfill their purpose. (Not counting parenting, of course.)

Right! He put words to the creeping, tide-like malaise I’ve felt through these months of epic weirdness and isolation. The one thing I do well, the one thing I love to do, the one thing I can contribute to the world—can’t do it. For different reasons, of course, but the bottom line is the same: the audience isn’t there. (In my case, that’s an employer, its brand, its audience.)

Isbell went on to say that one thing he’s doing regularly instead of performing before crowds is sitting on the floor and playing guitar. “It makes me happy,” he said. “It keeps me sane.”

That honest statement illuminated our divergent paths. Isbell and Shires have kept at their crafts (with the latter even learning how to record using Pro Tools); I’ve found other things to do. (Thank you, MLB TV.) They’ve continued to play instruments, to sing, to write songs; I’ve ignored the complete novel that needs another read-through. They’re doing regular streaming performances, releasing sets digitally, actively putting work out there. (Shires’ latest song, “The Problem,” is a philanthropic effort. Proceeds from purchasing the track, a difficult and touching exchange—with Isbell—about abortion, benefit reproductive justice organization The Yellowhammer Fund.) I’m indulging every distraction. They’re creating. I’m not.

Well. Isbell’s words jarred me awake.

Writing makes me happy. Writing keeps me sane. (Or at least I hope it will. Because things aren’t going to morph, suddenly or gradually, into some semblance of what they were anytime soon.) Why the hell am I not doing the one thing I can with that kind of steadying, restorative power? Why have I wallowed in despair—that’s an overstatement, but I haven’t exactly been surfing a rising tide of optimism—and repeatedly ignored or quashed a low-level urge to return to the page?

Well, no more. I was born to do this. Not doing it won’t help me improve. Not doing it won’t keep me sane.

Thanks for the motivation, Jason and Amanda. Keep the music coming. People need it.