Michael Z's Newsletter for September

Rabbits, dollhouses, and a tiny bit of fiction (at the end)

Boys’ Night (Month)

I’m home alone for a few weeks (cry) and so it’s been boys’ night for a while. The boys being me and the rabbits.

I started calling Tilly my son a few years ago as a joke, because he is a little marshmallow, and I’m not particularly masculine, and he is in fact a rabbit, so I enjoy the idea of presenting our relationship as a masculine, familial, and human bond. This became my partner’s “stepson” and our “second son” Tiramisu. I am not sure if it’s a joke anymore, in my heart. Careful what you say out loud a bunch!

So, it’s been me and the rabbits, and so it’s really been “marshmallows’ night” and I’m learning a lot about our dynamic.

First, I am seeing very directly what my partner brings to the practical care of our pets.

I had Tilly on my own for a good while, and I always worried I wasn’t doing a good enough job taking care of him. I was told over and over I was doing fine, but I’ve realized now I had an actual standard that I wasn’t reaching. At some point, before we moved, my partner offered to do things here and there as part of the rabbit care. More so after we adopted Tiramisu. Then once we moved, they slowly took over the hardest parts for me, and we have found a balance of doing what is easier for us.

It's been hard to do it as well alone. I think Tilly was well enough taken care of when it was just me, but an anxiety I had for years has eased over the past many months, as I have been sure that if I run out of energy, I won’t have to do the bare minimum and wish I could do more. I think he was fine, but I haven’t wondered in a long time now if that’s enough. I’m really grateful for that.

Aside from their care, I’ve also been experiencing what it’s like to be around each other more quietly. When my partner is home, we’re talking all the time. If we’re in another room from the rabbits, they’re hearing us chatter. Now, it’s quiet. Because I spent most of my free time the first week playing the Sims on my computer, I was spending many hours a day at my desk, working then gaming, with earbuds in. Sometimes I’d make a noise and the rabbits would pop up from their lounging position, like they’d almost forgotten I was there. I knew when I was in another room they weren’t perceiving me. Or, that they’d probably snuck into that room and I just couldn’t see them (they enjoy doing that).

I lived alone for two years (which doesn’t sound right). I remember the mixed feelings I had about it. I liked the freedom and the lack of worrying about how my home behaviors would affect other people. I liked designing my space. I liked, sometimes, coming home to quiet with my bunnies.

I did not like defaulting to being alone, though. I didn’t like that I had to try so hard to interact with any human being beyond work calls. I didn’t like long phone calls with my partner (loved the conversations, hated the technology noises and lack of proximity). I didn’t like feeling like I was going crazy all the time, because I forgot to walk outside for a few days.

So, I’ve been remembering those feelings, suddenly. There are ways it’s the same—I have to work to see people. I have to remember that if I feel down, I might just be tired of being alone.

But it’s much different, too. It’s different for it to be a limited time, and it’s different to have more space to walk around in. I’ve noticed a difference in just having that space. A studio apartment did not make me feel particularly adult, even though it was very adult and even privileged to be able to afford it. Here, though, I know I have a home that is actually enough for me and another person, and using that space makes me feel less alone.

It’s also different to have already been succeeding more at visiting with people in person, and even at meeting new people. It’s different that this time I’m setting an alarm to take a walk every day. It’s different to be more joyful in my neighborhood. It’s different to actually remember that if I feel down, I might just be tired of being alone.

I’m writing outside a café now, with someone I’ve only met twice, at the very tiniest writing meetup. Hoping it will eventually become three, maybe four, or five. But this is certainly nice too. I didn’t have that when I lived alone.

I’m enjoying my life during this time, and not exclusively playing the Sims or scrolling after work. I’ve also been better at not scrolling this time; but I’ve also developed compassion for myself with how little I did after work when I lived alone. I was very desperate for interaction, and social media is almost that. I’m grateful I know how to find people now. My desire for community is slowly working towards somewhere.

Now it’s later, I’m home, and boys night is me trying to keep Tilly from eating weird stuff, since he’s just discovered our living room exists.

The Sims 4 and Storytellers

I’ve been playing the Sims 4 a lot. I often think about how much it reminds me of when I was a kid playing with dolls. The stories are more adult (barely), and the toys are different, but it’s the same process. Make up some characters, move them around, tell a story about their lives. I often laugh at the irony that one day as a kid I decided I’d outgrown my dolls and got rid of them self-conciously, but I picked up the Sims about five years later and never put those dolls down again.

I’m not sure if everyone plays with dolls the way I did, but I think a lot of kids do. I wrote pretty elaborate stories with my toys. I’m thinking about how much I never worried about where those stories “went” when I was finished with them. There are a couple I remember now, but mostly they’re lost in the sands of time (like this essay will someday be, actually). When we play, it’s easier not to worry about the longevity, productivity, or impressiveness of the story.

I think that process has always been part of my writing. We call it writing because it’s written, but the root of what I do as a writer is tell stories. The more eternal craft is storytelling. I tell people that a lot—that I don’t think it matters if they’re good at piecing together a novel on paper—storytelling is valuable even if it only exists in someone’s memory after. Or even if it’s enjoyed and immediately forgotten.

I’ve played so many amazing role-playing games, with amazing storytellers. In college, I was in a Live Action Role Play (LARP) club, which was also my primary friend group. It was a really large LARP for a random college club; the stories were really compelling and I think that kept people around for years. The people running the game were really amazing writers. I don’t think any of them ever wrote a novel, but they wrote stories we remembered and talked about, halfway like they happened and halfway like a great movie we saw together.

These days, sometimes when I feel story creative, but I don’t feel like writing, I just play the Sims. It gives me a bunch of prompts. I often take a lot of screenshots, because I want to have something to remind me of the story later. I usually don’t look at them, though, because that wasn’t really the point.

A few summers ago, I was between a layoff and a job for a few months, and when I wasn’t job-hunting (and worrying) I was playing the Sims (and worrying). I remember calling my partner at night and telling them what was happening in my game. Because I spent so much time on it, it became one of the most interesting stories I’ve ever told. And a lot of it just lives in my head, and maybe a couple other people’s heads if they actually remember it. I was surprised that my partner genuinely wanted to hear about it. It was just my silly game!

But I am a writer, and my stories are interesting to certain people, at least. I have practiced a lot; from those stories I just told myself in my own head as a played as a kid, to the short stories I’ve written down and emailed to people, to this newsletter, to the Sims stories I also just tell myself in my head—it’s all a much larger part of who I am as a writer than the physical writing.

There have been a ton of blogs, YouTube channels, and TikTok channels where people share what happens in their Sims games—where they’re telling a story. There is nothing at all written down. They’re just sharing a video and talking. I’m sure this exists for other games, and for stories that only exist verbally.

When people tell stories, to me they’re some form of writer, because the connotation of “a good writer” in our culture is not necessarily a person who writes words down legibly, it’s a person who can tell a story or articulate a point well.

I am a big fan of Chuck Tingle as a public figure, and I was struck by something similar he said—that you’re a writer even if you’re just thinking things up. I hadn’t really considered that until he said it, probably a year ago now. It’s really worked its way into my mind; I felt challenged by that at first, but I think now I agree.

Writing is really a long process. I meet people who “don’t write” but they have run role playing games for years; people who “don’t write” but can tell a newly made up story on the spot. I think there is a craft to different kinds of writing; I know what authors do is in specific ways different than other types of storytelling. I think it’s interesting though to expand the idea of a writer, at least long enough to realize that part of what we value in writing isn’t about writing. There are pieces that are worth defning as writing, so maybe what I want is to value storytelling as much as we value writing.

We don’t really call people storytellers often. I think we should.

Books

I’m partway through two books right now. I’m reading Anna Karenina by Leo Tolstoy, who I’ve read none of before. I’ve been really surprised to find it funny. When I have heard about Tolstoy I expected something very serious, and maybe it gets serious, but so far this book is so funny? It’s very long, so at about 200 phone-pages in, I’m like, fifteen percent through. I’ve been mostly reading it when I’m sleepy, and it feels like being transported into the interiority of very frivolous wealthy people who are also genuinely relatable? Even when they aren’t, the characters make sense to me; they seem like people I’ve met. The narration feels very subtly judgemental, which I am enjoying. I didn’t expect this! I honestly thought I’d read two chapters and decide to go back to reading only queer romance novels, but here I am!

I’m also kind of reading The Female Man by Joanna Russ, which I also went into fully unaware of its context. I only realized it was written in the 1970s after about two chapters; the description sounded more recent. I say I’m kind of reading it because I keep reading Anna Karenina instead, which is “always available” on the library app, unlike The Female Man. I need to know what happens to these silly rich people though!

It’s surreal in a really different way; I keep finding that if I read it before bed, I have a desire for it to turn into an audiobook so I can keep reading after my eyes can’t do it anymore, and just let it incorporate horribly into my dreams.

It’s a bit stressful, and chaotic, and also engaging, and surreal. If I get through it before the library grabs it back, I will let you all know what I think. I got 30% through pretty fast, so maybe I can just read it all this week. Wish me luck?

Autumn

It’s here! I’m a little bummed that the weather over the summer was so intense and chaotic that I didn’t really get out much. But that is okay.

We are now in the nice, crisp air, cider and soup time. I’m excited. I made it back to the farmer’s market today, so it’s looking good. I’ll share the fall foods I’m making next time.

It’s also almost my birthday, and I have officially been in this city for ten years! More reflection on that next time, too.

Bunny Update

Whoa!

So, I moved some furniture and Tilly discovered that the living room exists. I’ve tried holding the rabbits and walking them in here so they understand, but I think they still read it as “somewhere else,” like when I walk them to the car. They look alarmed like they’ve seen too much.

But yesterday, I turned around and saw Tilly standing in the middle of the room. I said “Oh!” and took a photo. This photo:

Uh, so, wish me luck with that! I think a pet fence might be in our future. I have a feeling putting the couch back may not be able to undo the knowledge that we live in a space three times as large as he’s ever been in (by his own choices, mostly).

Unforunately, he will eat everything we own if left alone, so he needs to be supervised. I am happy for him though! The world got larger. At least sometimes.

Fiction

I have been thinking that it would probably help me be a little less precious about sharing my fiction if I shared little bits of it regularly in the newsletter. I’m in a Discord server for sharing writing for critique based on prompts. One of this week’s prompts was “write a 150-word paragraph where all of the sentences are no more than seven words.” I liked what I wrote, which is a bit fall themed; so here it is below.

It was time. Erica hated corn mazes. This one was particularly complex. She winced, waiting for the cloud. Anxiety—smothering haze, then lightning striking. She held Annie’s hand. “It’s alright,” Annie said, “It’ll be fun.” Erica didn’t believe her, but smiled. The first few turns were alright. It helped to not make the choices. I don’t have to keep track. She’ll get us through. Kids were screaming through the corn walls. Their joy felt both relieving and grating. Turn by turn they got closer. The thunder stayed far enough away. “Wait a sec,” she said. Annie turned to look at her. “You okay?” Erica took a deep breath. “Yes, I’m okay.” “We’re almost to the end,” said Annie. “How do you know?” Annie touched Erica’s face. “I tried it yesterday.” Erica closed her eyes and breathed. She opened them. “Thank you.”

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Thanks for reading!

What are your thoughts on what makes a writer? On “classics” you really enjoy? On whether I should let my rabbit eat a chair?

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Have a happy fall!