Perspective.

On reciprocation and Red Robin.

It’s one of those mad weeks that can just quit, already. And in spite of carrying endless capacity for chaos, you know? It’s not even my fault this time. People I love are in trouble, sick with cancer, and injured after a car accident YESTERDAY. It’s all kinds of unfairness. And I can kind of help, and kind of contribute, and kind of try to keep a grasp on the things I can control without unraveling, myself.

My life changed drastically in college, and that’s when I got really into literary roleplay. For an awkward, creative young person, it’s seductive. You are essentially catapulted into a hobby community of other creative young people who are pretty spastic, totally eccentric, with lots of spare time and a little streak of exhibitionism.

It’s nice to bypass facebook and all the other social media platforms where shallow performative milestones are the norm and just hit the sweet spot where your people are talking about the scene they wrote, are going to write, or are planning to write with you. It’s intensely motivating to have a chance to move a story forward if you just shatter that block and crank out the words faster. It’s incredibly validating to know that other people are watching your scenes to see where they fit into the greater narrative, a little bound ecosystem where everyone carves out a space that can be whatever they want or need it to be while still interlocking with the stories of others.

I miss people bearing witness to the insane amount of obsessive work I put into my writing, whether it’s fast and messy or the tenth revision of something that’s working its way out of the quarry and trying to be a statue. So much that I’ve started putting out feelers for a critique group, and beta readers, and anything that can help me reach “the next level” on my quest toward traditional publication, but I don’t know if what I’m missing out on is readers or just a shared sense of artistic community.

Writing a novel is a radically isolating experience even if you make efforts to mollify that inevitability. You kind of have to be obnoxiously obsessed with your story to sustain that kind of prolonged effort, and the truth, at the end of the day, is that even your parents, your friends, and your husband just will not care 10% as much as you do about your project.

And, you know? That’s normal, and healthy, and I would be worried if anyone else had 100% of their passion to give to someone else’s project. It would mean they had no passion of their own, and that is hollow revenant levels of unsettling.

But sometimes you want a little shared passion, especially when you’re willing to share and witness the singular passions of others.

Last week I invited someone who has become a close friend to a reptile show in Taylor, Michigan. She’s not a spider person. She’s not “just” a mom friend, though we were deceptively introduced in that context. We have similar backgrounds with homeschooling and religious trauma. I didn’t even really expect her to want to go with me to a reptile show (because I’m used to my outrageous, random side quests being solo), but she surprised and delighted me by saying yes.

I bought a giant tarantula that is terrifyingly strong, a confirmed female Goliath Birdeater. And on the two hour trip home my friend volunteered to hold the platter-sized deli tray in her lap while this GORGEOUS MONSTER tried with all her considerable might to pop the lid off. We stopped at the Red Robin in Brighton and drank margaritas and laughed about men we’ve loved and left while this massive tarantula just sat there next to our fries, maybe the first and last Goliath Birdeater to grace that location (though, who knows? Red Robin is great vibes and Taylor has the largest reptile expo in a cold state where exotic purchases can’t just wait in the car.)

On the way home, I talked some about my book until I probably sounded a little unhinged. We talked about our kids, and plans, and men, and music. We also had stretches of comfortable silences. And I just couldn’t help thinking about the blessing and peace that comes with reciprocity.

It’s witness. It’s care. It’s being worth the time and effort of another person. And it’s also a lesson in unfair stereotyping, because sometimes “that mom” has a buried weird streak that is incredibly beautiful and incendiary in its relatability.

Once, if a relative got a life-changing diagnosis or my mother was in a car crash, I would have let my roleplaying network know, first. This week, I texted my friend, and didn’t feel embarrassed or regretful (which is SO rare for me after I express vulnerability.)

We’re going to make upscale dinners and irreverent, goblin laughter in fancy dresses a regular thing, honoring passion over procedure. I’m so here for it.