As the COVID-19 pandemic continues to rock the music industry, GRAMMY.com reached out to a few musicians to see how they were spending their days indoors. Today, artist and singer/songwriter Issy Wood shares her Quarantine Diary. Wood's debut EP, Cries Real Tears!, is out now. 

[8.45 a.m.] I wake up cold—the antidepressants I’m on sometimes cause me to sweat the bed; apparently last night was one of those times. I dreamt I was trying to leave Venice on a jet ski and the moisture adds a certain realism to it all.

[9 a.m.] I throw on clothes I don’t care about since all interest in fashion has been cancelled since March. I take vitamins (the pills that make me sweat), drink a huge bottle of water and get on my bike to ride to the studio. A normal person would’ve showered, but I prefer squalor.

[9.30 a.m.] I smoke 2 cigarettes, drink 2 espressos and eat a croissant while doing the New York Times crossword puzzle on their app. It’s Tuesday, so the clues are painless. I send a screengrab of the app’s “CONGRATS! You completed Tuesday in 12 minutes!” to Ben who is in New York and will wake up to my success before annihilating me. I paint for two hours while listening to Alec Baldwin’s “Here’s The Thing” podcast.

[11.30 a.m.] I pick up a call from an unknown London number with an automated voice telling me I am under investigation for tax evasion and that a warrant is out for my arrest. In my heart I know it’s spam, but I’m seized by a moment of terrified speculation that my accountant has been cooking the books since he wears a gold necklace. He hasn’t. 

[12 p.m.] My studio landlord comes over and tells me about his diabetic wife. His cousin gets out of a Mercedes and tells me COVID isn’t real. “How do you know?” I ask. He gestures to a group of pigeons eating what looks like a discarded sock in the yard. “Because look at these birds, they’re fine, they never get sick. The news don’t want you to know this,” he says.  

[1:30 p.m.] I eat a salad and chase it with further cigarettes. I listen to the draft of a song I worked on last night and test out a chorus on my keyboard. My gallerist, Vanessa, texts me about a show in Beijing next month. I’m grateful for the one exhibition scheduled this year in China. I learned yesterday that the Chinese have their own nicknames for western celebrities and politicians. Taylor Swift is known as “Unlucky Bus”, Angela Merkel is “Silent Granny.” I think my favourite, though, is Avril Lavigne, known simply as “Yeast”.

[3 p.m.] New York is awake, and Maggie, my press person, is emailing me about magazines while I paint. Sometimes I think I’m her worst nightmare because I’m camera-shy, picky and ill-tempered. Mark Ronson texts me to say he liked a particular lyric from a new song. I ask him if he’s ever been a clue on the NYT crossword puzzle and he doesn’t reply. 

[4.30 p.m.] I pack up the studio and bike home via the supermarket and the pharmacy. People seem depressed, possibly drunk. When the government put a 10 p.m. curfew on bars and pubs (as though covid only exists after 10pm) the British public just started drinking earlier. Now that we are fully locked down, I imagine people drink all day. I calculate online how long I’ve been sober in minutes: 204987. I feel a moment of smugness, then sadness because I miss vodka.

[5 p.m.] In the pharmacy line, I read an advice column about vaginismus and go through my bi-weekly ritual of wondering whether I should get a dog. I then remember the time my ex-boyfriend’s dog Golda ate an entire Le Labo scented candle and decide I’m still not ready.

[5.30 p.m.] I work on music at my kitchen table, tapping lyrics into my phone that say: “Im feeling good it’s just / your love’s got me close to concussed / yeah maybe I’ll meet all your heat with disgust / but I won’t make a fuss.” The second line bugs me and I check Rhymezone, my favourite website, for alternatives. None suffice.

[6.30 p.m.] I eat tabbouleh punctuated by texts with my manager, John. He and I haven’t met in person because of COVID, but I am so glad he came on board when he did. I express a wish to have my music on "Grand Theft Auto VI," and he shows me some salt beef he’s been making. John is a food person and ever since I gave him my YouTube password for uploading videos, my watch history has largely been instructional videos on how to gut and fillet fish.

[6.45 p.m.] I “show up” to my eating disorder therapy group late on Zoom. Everybody seems to be working on calling their mothers less often. I can’t relate and should really call my mother. She’s a paediatrician and a truly great parent.

[8.45 p.m.] I abandon Ableton for "The Sopranos" reruns and the familiar attraction to James Gandolfini that most women I know harbour. Vanessa texts me about an “unappealing group show” which I say no to. Vanessa offers to decline the request herself, since I have a track record of writing “dear [gallery] No. kind regards, Issy”

[10.30 p.m.] I write on my blog then lie in a needlessly hot bath wondering what the prison time is for tax evasion and whether I’d thrive as an inmate.

[11.30 p.m.] I stagger from the tub into bed with texts from L.A. and New York unanswered. Someone is revving their car engine in my neighbourhood; Masculinity is so complicated.

Aimee Mann On 'Bachelor No. 2' Turning 20 & Launching An Indie Label In 1999