Personality Test

A few years ago I applied for a freelance proofreading job. The idea was to find something that would supplement the income I get from my other jobs, and the flexible structure of this one would have fit nicely into my schedule. Plus, I enjoy proofreading, and I’m good at it. I didn’t get the job, though, so I thought now was as good a time as any to criticize and make fun of their interview process, which included a proofreading test (which is standard) as well as a personality test AND an I.Q. test, which I think is pretty ballsy of them, especially considering the fact that they already had my resume, my complete list of writing credits and education, and two professional references. This wasn’t a very demanding position I was applying for. How much more information about my “I.Q.” did they need? I don’t apply for jobs all that often, so I genuinely don’t know: Is this sort of shit typical now?

To his credit, the personable guy who interviewed me over the phone told me that he doesn’t put much stock in personality tests because he finds them “a little weird,” as do I. And it surely wasn’t his decision to give these tests to job applicants, so I don’t blame him for it. I do find fault with whoever it was at this company who thought it made sense to try to gauge my “intelligence” and “personality” using standarized tests, without considering the possibilty that there might be some value in having me COME IN TO MEET WITH THEM. I mean, really. A phone interview and a computerized personality test? How about inviting me to your office? I could get there on the bus in 40 minutes, and then you’d have a chance to shake my hand and look me in the eye. You know, like two human beings. Wouldn’t that kind of exchange tell them more about me than two exams that didn’t test me on anything to do with the job they were considering me for?

If you’re wondering what a personality test is, I can tell you what this one was like. It was comprised of a series of sets of two statements, and I was asked to look at one set at a time and choose the statement I more strongly agreed with. The test was timed, and copying the text from the page was fussy, so I was only able to grab two of the sets to share with you. (I’d actually planned to make poems out of them, so I wish I’d gotten a few more.) Here’s one pair:

I almost always understand and agree with the reason for rules.

I might break a promise to someone if I had no other option.

Among so many other things, I take issue with the way the second statement here is phrased. If I had no other option? If it’s the case that I have no choice but to break the promise, then I must break the promise, right? Am I overthinking this? Or did they underthink it? Either way I found this impossible to answer properly.

Here’s the other pair of statements I copied:

I take my obligations and responsibilities as seriously as most people do.

I enjoy interruptions when I’m completing a boring task.

Now, you know that when you’re given a “test” like this, what you’re trying to do is figure out the answer they want you to give, not the one that’s true to how you feel. I struggled back and forth with my strong inclination to answer honestly and my (sometimes stronger) desire to get a high score on every test I take, and I kept finding myself baffled by this one’s intent, which was baffling by design, I’m sure. But I don’t believe for a second that the people who gave it to me were making an honest effort to assess my personality type in order to find out whether I’d work well with the people they’d already hired, or whatever. The statements tended to be about my feelings toward work and relationships, and just as often about my attitude toward rules and—though they were couched in language about honesty or other moral quandaries—how likely I am to respect the authority of a boss and do as I’m told. If that’s what it means to assess my personality, somebody needs to get a better understanding of what a personality is.

I’m reminded of a beautiful quotation from The Office, a show I quote from about 100 times a day. In this particular episode, the new HR rep calls an ethics meeting, and in it she tells everyone not to steal office supplies and also that wasting time at work counts as stealing from your employer. The office well, actually guy, Oscar, pipes up:

“This isn’t ethics. Ethics is a real discussion of the competing conceptions of the good. This is just the corporate anti-shoplifting rules.”

It’s embarrassing to agree with the show’s annoyingly pendantic character, but this is perfect. These kinds of critiques of corporate culture were one of many reasons the show was so good. 

For a day or two after I applied for the job, I thought about the indignation Barbara Ehrenreich expressed at being given bullshit personality tests like the one I took in her book, Nickel and Dimed. I felt bolstered remembering her conviction that no one who was considering giving her some crummy job (or even a decent job) had a right to try to worm inside her mind in that way. Here is a quote from her wonderful book, in which she says the same thing I have been trying to express, more eloquently and possibly even more angrily:

“What these [personality] tests tell employers about potential employees is hard to imagine since the ‘right’ answer should be obvious to anyone who has ever encountered the principle of hierarchy and subordination. Do I work well with others? You bet, but never to the point where I would hesitate to inform on them for the slightest infraction. Am I capable of independent decision making? Oh yes, but I know better than to let this capacity interfere with a slavish obedience to orders . . .

The real function of these tests, I decide, is to convey information not to the employer but to the potential employee, and the information being conveyed is always: You will have no secrets from us. We don’t just want your muscles and that portion of your brain that is directly connected to them; we want your innermost self.”

Her book was written 20 years ago (and published a few years later), but this kind of everyday mistreatment of workers continues. It has most likely gotten worse, institutionally. Ehrenreich is still mad about it—follow her on Twitter if you don’t already—and so am I. You should be too.

factory

Naked Youth

“I know it’s silly to write things down, but it’s also good and important, though a little arrogant and pointless.”—Billy Childish, Notebooks of a Naked Youth

Though I’ve cited it as my favorite book of all-time—if I had to pick one, which I obviously don’t—it’s been years since I looked at Notebooks of a Naked Youth. I’d forgotten how funny it was.

The reason I got it out today was because I wanted to tell you about the description of a migraine that’s in it. One day, our hero William Loveday, a young guy who’s either a genius or constantly on the verge of losing his marbles—or both—gets a migraine, and the pain and distortion come ripping into his cold, miserable bedsit, disrupting his delusions of grandeur and hilarious train of thought.

I found this book when I was in my 20s, and all these years later my memory of reading the headache passage is strong and physical. I remember sitting on the edge of my bed in the apartment I lived in alone, where the air was always so still, and being stunned by what I was reading. It seemed that someone had somehow crawled into my skull, peered through my eyes, and reported on what they saw through them in this fucked-up, beautiful book. It switched something on for me, the way a book can light you up when you’re a young teenager and later on you realize it helped shape the person you became. I didn’t think that could happen to me as an adult, but it did. 

When I remember that little apartment of mine now, I think of those walls as barely containing all my thrashing around. I kept the place tidy and sweet looking, and I think I myself may have appeared tidy and sweet looking, but on the inside, a lot of the time, I felt like a wild, spooked horse, bucking around with all the feeling inside of me and no good place to put it. My only real outlets were my writing and the sparking neural discharge of my migraines. I had a lot of migraines while I lived there. I’ve always gotten them, beginning in childhood—-and not with the onset of adolescence, the way a lot of people do, though I think I have correctly assessed that at least one of my migraines triggers is hormonal shifts—but for a couple of years when I was in my 20s they peaked, in both number and intensity. For at least a year I got around one debilitating migraine a week. I don’t even like thinking about this for long enough to describe it to you, but I can tell you that my memory of that time is symbolized by one day in particular. My migraines have always lasted exactly the length of one workday, beginning upon waking and leaking away around dinnertime, and my joke was that one of us had to work a nine-to-five job so it may as well be the headaches. I spent this one day in the same position for about 8 hours straight. Sat up on my bed, bent at the waist with my head pressed into a pillow on my lap, not moving. Occasionally moaning, though I immediately regretted doing that. I’ve learned some things from this pain over the years, and one of them—for better or for worse, metaphorically—is that crying only makes it worse. That kind of pain makes you feel trapped in your body; well, you are trapped in your body, aren’t you, for now at least. But during an episode like this you’re trapped in there with the pain, which obliterates everything else, which means there’s nowhere to go inside your mind for comfort, so you kind of have to … go into the pain. It’s the only way through to the other side, to where the pain is gone. I know that sounds mystical, but I’m trying to be as literal as I can be. It hurts worse when you fight it, goes easier when you don’t. I think it might have something to do with this letting go I’ve always heard so much about, but find so very hard to do.

Anyway, the unlovely William Loveday gets migraines too, though only his doctor uses that word. Loveday just calls them “my headaches.” I want to tell you about his description of one of them, which can only have been written by someone who gets migraines, so I guess I share that in common with Billy Childish, who is one of my idols for this and many other reasons. Here is the thing I read that broke me open all those years ago and made me a better person:

“Something that people shouldn’t laugh at is watching a lot of silly shoppers crawling up and down the High Street, their faces ravaged with delight and misery, the wind so strong that they are forced to lower their bodies and cling to the pavement like a lot of silly insects. Shopping in this manner is something that you shall never see me doing. I force myself to look away, which means I will probably miss seeing Kursty and her ridiculous mother. If indeed they do choose this particular hour to come shopping for rain hats.

Next, I see a flash and something hits me in the eye. I turn and stagger against the wall, my head thundering like a freight train and I go down. My hands dance like white skeltons before me, the blood drained from my skin like as if someone had opened my wrists. One second I’m standing there, holding my hat on against the breeze, the next I’m knocked sideways and no little pill can straighten me out. Full-blown, flashing lights, like a punch up the bracket. The world slides away from me. … Toothache of the eye socket, just up and behind it, my left eye … I hold onto it … My knees shaking … I can’t stand … I have to go down … to get my head level with the pavement … dull, a million patterns … rhythms of the blood …”

I love everything about this description, including the slide from his pissy disapproval of the people doing their shopping into breath-taking, stupid-making pain. Toothache of the eye socket. That’s the feeling alright.

To be sure, there is something humbling about being struck down that way, especially when you’re a person who’s given to arrogant, mean-spirited thoughts, like William Loveday and me. There’s also something about it that tends to make you superstitious. I’d wake up into the pain and nausea of a fresh migraine and immediately remember the snit I’d been in the day before, grumping about everyone—that must have been the headache, building up inside me—or something rotten I’d smelled—that’s what brought it on!—or the hundreds of cigarettes I’d recently honked up, that I could still smell on my fingers. Smoking might well have been a trigger, actually, though I never entertained that idea seriously until I was ready to quit. 

Loveday staggers off the street back to his home, where he manages his migraine and related symptoms for a week, alone in his grubby room on his “stinking mattress.” He describes the way the pain comes and goes, which is hauntingly familiar to me. It’s not gone until it’s gone, and it might decide to play with you a little before it leaves. At one point he tests it by shaking his head “like a block of cheese” and he can tell the worst is over, but senses “…the ache still there, not quite past, waiting, like a sentinel.” That’s exactly what migraines do. Sometimes you can know they’re still there even once they’ve stopped hurting, and it is weird things like this that make them totally different from regular headaches. 

Back when I was suffering with these frequent migraines, I never talked to anyone but my mother about them—she used to get them too, when she was younger—and though I instinctively kept the problem a secret I think that made things worse. As secrets tend to do. I kept to myself and was lonely and weird. Reading this book and coming across this passage, the surprise of it like a bolt out of the sky, felt like making violent, glorious connection with another human being. I may have been lonely but I wasn’t alone! And not only that, but it seemed that I shared something meaningful with a writer I admired very much.

Until this morning I hadn’t picked up the book in a long time. I’m not sure why I let it sit on the shelf, often thought of but never reread. Maybe it scared me, thinking about that pain; maybe I didn’t want to tamper with my memory of reading the book for the first time, which was important and identity-building. Now that I have it out again, it’s got me thinking about other things, too. About comfort and discomfort, wildness versus settledness. About where I was then, and how I’ve gotten to the place I am now.

Back then, I loved William Loveday, the haunted, dragged-out, disgusting person who told us his story in so many flavors of unsugar-coated truth. He masturbated and felt ashamed about it, even though he told us about it every time and tried to act like he didn’t feel dirty. Later, he’d call himself stained and ruined, a dog. He insulted people in his mind, sometimes arch and self-aware but often just plain mean. He described street scenes and barrooms that were so squalid they made him woozy, almost dissociating in distress. I’d say I fell in love with him, but it wasn’t quite like that. I felt like I was him, and he was the messy, disastrously masculine version of me. 

I had then, and still have now, a restlessness in me that grows until it is intolerable, and then something has to give. I can’t decide whether this energy is my life force or a death drive. Maybe, for me, they’re the same thing. And then there’s the ever-present anger and sadness, the well that never goes dry. Whatever these feelings are, wherever they come from, it seems to me that some sort of existential pressure builds up inside me that must inevitably burst out in the form of a migraine—or else the pressure is the migraine, gearing up for its performance. Getting a piercing or a tattoo can help release the pressure before it blows: ritualized pain. So can standing in a dark room with a bunch of strangers, listening to musicians make noise so loud it makes your jaws vibrate. More pain, the kind that drowns out your thoughts, not unlike a headache. Battering my body, just a bit, in a way I can control. But the best place to send my restlessness is into my writing, which lets me plug into the great flow of life and feel it stream right through me. This is when I feel most alive. I think I might sound highfalutin and self-indulgent now, but like William Loveday—who knows he is a genius—I don’t care. I care, but I can’t care. What else can I do? I have to tell you what it feels like to be me.

I still have the wildness in me, but I’m also more comfortable than I used to be. I’ve got more money and a little more space to live in, and some of the things I was constantly aching to do as a very young person, I have gotten the chance to try. I’m more comfortable in my skin, even, which seems to be something that kind of just happens with age, thank god. But the biggest difference, I see now, is that I’m no longer walking alone through life.

William Loveday does everything by himself. He falls in love and has sex and gets into fights, but he’s moving through the world as a solitary figure. I don’t think I realized how important aloneness is to Notebooks of a Naked Youth until just now, probably because I am alone at this precise moment, for the first time in ages, sitting in a rented room on a solo writer’s retreat of my own making. I’m in the carriage house of a spooky old gothic Victorian house, where there is no wifi and no TV. Just four rooms, each with smooth, unvarnished hardwood floors and a certain stillness I remember from the years I lived alone. I stayed in that apartment of mine for almost ten years, and during that time I didn’t get too close mane people, and most of my paying work was in the form of freelance and contract gigs that I did from home. I did get a little weird sometimes, but being alone with my thoughts so much was good for my writing. (I didn’t have a TV then, either.) I prowled the rooms and got up in the middle of the night to stare out the black window, woke up the next day and hammered away at my computer keyboard or my typewriter. The things I needed to say, I said to the universe. 

But then I met someone who became my best friend, and now we’ve been married and have lived together for four years. We work together, make music and books together, go out to shows together, ride the bus together, sleep side by side. We talk all day long. I’m as comfortable with him as I am by myself, but of course the two things are not the same.

It took a long time for me to get this close to him. For years we lived apart and only saw each other on the weekends, but bit by bit I let him in, and now we’re inseparable. We live together in a house in Philadelphia, and it has a fucking TV, as well as fancy electric toothbrushes that I’m embarrassed of but kind of need for my horrible teeth, according to the dentist. And to my life partner and great friend, who takes better care of me than I have ever taken of myself. 

The wildness and the aloneness I’ve been musing about—they might be closely connected, at least for me. Most of the time I’m working to beat the wildness back, keep the headaches at bay, and release some of that uncomfortable tension now and again. But for now, while I’m alone and working on this writing, I might let the wildness out to stalk these quiet rooms. As long as it doesn’t overstay its welcome it can be pretty good company. 

Holy shit

I’ve only ever taken one serious writing class in my entire life. I was an undergraduate at the University of Pennsylvania when they introduced a new requirement: Everyone, regardless of their major, would now have to take a writing class. I remember thinking this was a bit superfluous for someone like me, who already knew she was a writer—ha—but I was excited about it, too. In my memory, they issued a special publication listing all the different, themed writing courses we could choose from, though it’s possible I’ve trumped this up in my mind, and the listings were only a part of the regular course catalog. 

My boyfriend thought we should sign up for the same writing class, since he was an economics major and this would be our only chance to take a class together. I didn’t necessarily agree that this would make the class more fun or interesting—and in fact it made the whole experience more tense, at least for me—but it happened that we were both drawn to the same listing, out of all the many we could choose from: Writing About Death. We signed up.

Writing About Death was taught, and I believe was created by, a young PhD student who had gone to school at a university that was infinitely more liberal than ours. She was a more radical thinker than anyone I’d met up until that point, probably, and it made a big impression on me. Twenty years on, the class is still so vivid in my mind. We arranged our chairs in a circle and faced each other to have our conversations. There were only two female students, me and one other girl who—I woudn’t put money on this, but I’m almost certain I’m remembering this correctly—was pre-med, and had little to say about the readings. Our teacher’s ideas were challenging but her presence was protective, and I felt safe and seen in a sea of overconfident boys in baseball caps. 

We read and talked about James Joyce (“The Dead”) and Allen Ginsberg’s “Kaddish,” and watched a film about the AIDS quilt. We made a visit to the Shambhala Center downtown and tried meditation, which was unfamiliar to most but not all of us. I stunk at it, but I can still remember the buzz in the air in that room, all of those young bodies thrumming with energy and trying, briefly, to be still. In fact, all of the things we thought, talked, read, and wrote about in that class were as much about life as they were about death, but that’s kind of how that goes, I think. Can’t have one without the – other!

Ginsberg visited our campus that semester, and our instructor got to meet and have dinner with him. She showed him the writing we’d done in response to “Kaddish,” and the next time our class met she reported to all of us that he’d picked mine out, was impressed by it. Well, she’d explained, these aren’t exactly original. This was an exercise based on your poem. 

“I know,” she said he said. “But this girl got it.”

Will you hold it against me that I’m bragging about Allen Ginsberg reading and praising something I wrote, all these years later? It’s just such a dear memory for me. Early encouragement of the most electrifying kind. 

Anyway. Anyway, anyway. I have stayed in touch with that teacher here and there over the years, and I subscribe to her email list. Not too long ago she sent out a message about a show she was putting on at a gallery in New York. Through a performance in the space and graffiti scribbled on the walls, she would explore the secular usage of godly turns of phrase. Expressions like Oh my god (OMG!), the kinds of things people say all the time. She wanted to investigate the meaning of these words when they’re divorced—or are they?—from their religious context. It’s such an exciting idea, I wish I’d had it. She invited people to submit things remotely, and she would then write some of them on the gallery walls. I wrote something short in response to the call for submissions at the time, and have expanded on it a bit, below. 

***

The word holy. I heard it so much growing up, in church and in my Catholic grade school and high school—which were extensions of church, figuratively and almost literally, with chapels inside the schools and, in the case of my elementary school, the beautiful, stone parish church right next door. The priests lived in their house on the property and the nuns lived in theirs, and we kids were in the same small class with the same kids from first to eighth grade, starting out as a pile of puppies and turning into tall, awkward young teenagers; in my mind now those kids occupy a space just to the left of siblings. For us, school and home and church and family were hopelessly intertwined. 

The holy family. (That’s Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.)

The holy trinity. (That’s Jesus, God the Father, and God the Holy Spirit.)

Holy of holies. (That’s God in general, I guess. This one was both said and sung during the Mass.)

The language of Catholicism sounds ancient, even though it’s no longer the magical, dead language of Latin. When I was a kid the word holy so often it was normal and even mundane, but I don’t hear it said or think about it much anymore.

These days, ”holy shit!” is one of my favorite things to say. It’s profane, but it functions as an affirmation, like “Wow!” or even “Good for you!”

Though I find myself in a very secularized micro-culture, most of the people I know say “Bless you” or “God bless you” when someone sneezes. I’ve trained myself to get used to saying “gesundheit” instead. It makes me feel uncomfortable to bless someone in casual conversation, and I’m surprised that more of the people I know, almost none of whom are religious in any way, don’t find it odd.

Here’s one more little story for you. For the first several years of my life my parents did not give us any sort of religious education, but when I was around 8 years old my mother decided to go back to the Catholic church, which she had grown up with. She enrolled me and my sister in Catholic school and started taking us to church. During the first Mass I ever attended, I was scandalized because I heard the priest say “Jesus Christ.” I whipped around to my mother and whispered, “He just said a bad word!” She was mortified (and pissed), but it wasn’t my fault: I’d only ever heard my father shout “Jesus Christ!” when he accidentally broke something or hammered his thumb instead of a nail, so I thought the word Jesuschrist was a curse.

How Green Was My Valley

Several years ago I wrote a column for the Philadelphia Inquirer about something we decided to call digital literature. The idea my editor, Frank Wilson, had was that since a new kind of literature was emerging the paper should cover it, and he gave me the job. I reported on pieces of work that I considered to be nonlinear in a distinctly digital way—such as stories that you could click through into different layers, Wikipedia-like—or things that seemed to sit at the intersection of literature and … something else. 

Sometimes the something else was automation. I learned about the existence of MEXICA, an artificial intelligence-based computer system designed by a Mexican researcher named Rafael Pérez y Pérez that could construct short stories. On its own this was not a brand new idea, but Pérez’s system was unique because it tagged characters for their emotional connections to each other, which in turn drove the plot of the story. This made the stories—as simple as they were—into something more robust than strings of sentences, something a little more human. As he told me, models like his one are interesting, not because they are intended to replace human creators, but because they can teach us about the nature of that creation. It’s kind of like reverse engineering, if you will—in order to teach a machine how to set the creative process in motion, we first have to take it apart into its components. Once we’ve put it back together, we’ll have a better understanding of how it works. 

People were, and are, making some interesting literature using new technologies. As I researched them, I found that some of these stories seemed like games to me. When I wrote about Inanimate Alice, an animated, interactive story in installments that “readers” experience on a computer or tablet by making choices for the main character, watching videos, listening to music—and, yes, reading text—I talked with its creators a good deal about what makes something a novel (they consider Inanimate Alice to be an “interactive novel”) and what makes something a game. There are lots of answers to both of those questions, of course, but some of those answers overlap. For instance, book can be interactive, one simple example being a “choose your own adventure” novel that is both read and played like a game in the sense that the reader controls some of the story’s movements and outcomes. But just as interesting is the fact that most games have a narrative, and the pleasure we get out of playing them can be similar to the experience of reading a good book. I said something to this effect in my article about Alice because I understood that some games featured characters, unfolded like stories, or changed some of their features with the passage of time. But I’d never really played a video game, so for me it was just an idea. 

Now I would like to tell you about a game called Stardew Valley and my obsession with it, and how it has come to broaden my view of the ways in which a story can live inside your mind.

sdv

A few months ago, my husband—a person who always has at least one game on the go—gently nudged me to try playing a video game on the Nintendo Switch. He told me several times that he thought I’d like it, which isn’t something he says about any of his other games, which he plays on the Switch, on the computer, and on his phone. Eventually I agreed to let him show me how the controllers worked and how to play the game itself.

Stardew Valley is a farming simulation game, which couldn’t sound more boring. It’s not, though. Your character, who is “you” (which is almost always the case in video games, but is a fascinating concept in itself), begins the game slaving at a desk in a hive of cubicles, weary of your grey, empty life. You then receive a letter telling you that your grandfather has died and left you his farm, so you leave your corporate hell behind and travel to Stardew Valley, where your little homestead is nestled. You learn to plant crops there, take care of your animals, cook food, and forage in the woods for mushrooms and fruit. It makes sense that the character that is you has never worked on a farm before, because you, the player, have to learn how to do all these things, too. 

There’s a town nearby, and you’re supposed to meet the people who live there and get to know them. It’s a real cast of characters and most of them are kind of rude to you at first, since you’re new and they don’t trust you yet. Because they put you off in the beginning they seem fairly uninteresting—all surface and no depth—but as you get to know them you see how varied they are. They slowly reveal their stories, habits, feelings, and quirks to you, just like the characters in any other kind of story, or people in real life. 

Because the game is based on farming, the change of seasons is significant. Each new season looks different, you can grow different fruits and vegetables, and the music that plays is particular to the time of year. As you get better at all your tasks you gain access to superior tools—a shovel for digging up your crops, an axe for chopping down trees, a pickaxe for breaking rocks in a nearby mine—which makes you even more successful. There are practical incentives to becoming closer with the other characters, too. They might send you a cooking recipe in the mail, or gift you with some lumber that you can use to build a chicken coop or barn. You get to name your animals, and when you touch them a heart appears over their heads, indicating that they feel happy and cared for—unless they’re mad at you for neglecting them in some way. In that case, a scribbly little storm cloud appears in the thought balloon instead. The animals never die and you don’t slaughter them, thank goodness, but you can sell them off, and some of them will occasionally give birth to a baby.

Eventually you can get married in the game, and then your new spouse leaves their little house and comes to live with you in your little house, which by now probably has a wine cellar and some other fancy additions. As I got more into the befriending-other-characters aspect of the game, I found I had my eye on a woman instead of a man, and I decided to go with it because it’s a game and what the hell. Her name was Leah, and she lived alone in a cottage in the woods just south of my farm. I’d go down there to fish in the river beside her house—oh yeah, there’s fishing in the game too—and I admired the wreaths and other seasonal decorations she always had up, thinking maybe she was a witch and feeling drawn to her solitude. I talked to her often, brought her gifts, and eventually earned enough closeness with her that I was allowed to propose, with the gift of an amulet that I bought from a salty old sailor who skulks around the beach on rainy days. Yes, really.

Ridiculously, my heart—my real-life, actual heart—was pounding with nerves and excitement on the day I proposed to Leah. You’ll be happy to know that things went well, and she now lives with me in my farmhouse and makes her sculptures in the yard. (Not to brag but she’s cute and she’s an artist.) I hasten to point out that you don’t have to get married in Stardew Valley. You can also choose whether or not to have kids with your spouse. Just like in real life, this option did not interest me at all. Every time Leah asks if I want to adopt a baby, I select the cop-out answer, complete with chickenshit elipses: “Not now…”

Since playing a game like this was new to me, getting a response to my actions from the other characters felt like a lovely surprise. It was also a little unnerving, as if the game console I held in my hands somehow contained real people who had feelings and could talk to me, though I was perfectly aware they are computer programs and not real people. Somehow, the emotional response is the same. I’m reminded of the early days of the Internet, when my mind didn’t yet have a category for that kind of communication. It was freaky to send “instant messages” and talk to someone in real time, not on a phone but in front of a screen, with text you could read: a conversation that was visual, not audible. It puts me to mind of a scene from Sex in the City, when technophobe Carrie tries chatting online for the first time with a guy. When his answer pops up on her computer screen she feels exposed, and yells “Oh my God, he’s online. Can he see me?” and ducks her head down under her desk to hide. 

As I have learned, some games are considered linear, which means there’s only one way to move through them. Your character is guided along one direction, and you must complete one goal at a time before being allowed to pass through to the next portion. Stardew Valley, by contrast, is an “open-ended” game that is not linear. You can spend your time each day doing whatever you like, and there’s no way to win or lose, though there are lists of goals you can accomplish, which will lead you to a feeling of completion. You don’t have to do them if you don’t want to, though. And you could keep playing long after you’ve crossed them off your list. Unlike a book, you’re the one who decides when it ends. 

I guess it’s possible I’m trying too hard to relate this game to the structure and experience of reading a novel—and believe me, it isn’t the case that I think the novel should be held up as a standard by which all works of fiction should be judged. It’s not the 18th century! Still, I find it interesting to think about how stories can be shared and accessed, and the different ways they inhabit our imaginations. 

I like thinking, for instance, about a game that is a simulation of life as opposed to a novel that is meant to capture real life. Realist fiction is supposed to feel familiar and “real,” but not usually in a moment-to-moment, repetitive sort of way. In Stardew Valley you are living a life, not reading about it, and this means, for example, that you have to complete things in the course of a day before time runs out, and then you have to go to bed. (You’re supposed to go to sleep by midnight, but there’s some leeway with this. You’ll only pass out if you stay up until 2 am, and there are penalties for letting this happen. If you pass out on your own property, employees of Joja, the jokily evil corporation that looms over the town like a vengeful god, will bring you safely inside—but they’ll charge you a fee.)

The most obvious thing to say about all this is that playing the narrative of a game like Stardew Valley is more like being in a novel than it is like reading one. And I’m surprised by how engrossing I find this. I’ve been playing Stardew Valley for a few months now, and I still feel a part of that world. A good novel is over too soon—you’ll blow through it in a day or two or three if you’re really into it—though of course you can read it again. A really good novel gives you a new experience each time you re-engage with it, but even still, the words are always static on the page. In real terms, no two people can have the exact same experience of a game like Stardew Valley. That is to say, it’s dynamic. There is a finite and fixed set of things that can happen—just like in real life? Maybe. Must return to this question another time—but depending on what you prioritize and how you spend your time, you will encounter things at different points than someone else will, which affects how you feel, influences the decisions you make, and gives shape to your experience.

Anyway, I love this game. I love its cozy atmosphere and pretty music. I love the way it looks and sounds on rainy days, and the fact that magic and monsters are mixed in with the mundane features of everyday life. I even love the pacing of the game, which, as with a novel, might be one of the most important things for the creator to get right. There’s never so much going on at once that I get overwhelmed, confused, or frustrated, but time moves quickly enough that there’s a sense of urgency that keeps me engaged. (A “day” in Stardew Valley lasts for about 20 minutes, and you can see the time click by in ten minute increments on a clock on the screen.)

I think it’s worth noting that the game’s creator, Eric Barone, made this thing entirely by himself. He thought up the concept, then taught himself how to do everything he needed to make it. He spent years building this world—he even wrote all the music for it—and as a result, it is very robust, despite being intentionally simple and cute in many ways. As I have learned, most games that are as highly developed and successful as this one are created by companies that put lots of money and teams of people behind them. Besides the sheer impressiveness of Barone’s solo feat, I wonder if it also has something to do with how deep and compelling the game’s narrative is. One guy wrote it, just the way one person writes a novel. They have a deeply personal experience of making these things, so when you enter these stories we enter the fully-realized world of someone else’s imagination.

I recently read an interview with Barone in which he said that he began making Stardew Valley because his all-time favorite game, Harvest Moon, had changed in a way he didn’t like, but he still wanted to play it. In essence, then, he made the game he wanted to play, which reminds me of something else bookish, that famous remark by Toni Morrison: “If there’s a book you want to read, but it hasn’t been written yet, then you must write it.”

A World of its Own

The other day my mom handed me a book she said she’d been wanting to pass along. When I saw it I was surprised that it was not an ordinary mass market book, but something that had been self-published and was bound with one of those plastic comb bindings and entirely handwritten. These are exactly the kinds of things I like to find in a book, so I thought I’d tell you about it, too.

In the 1970s these two British ladies, Felicity Taormina and Irina Smith, moved to Philadelphia after having lived all over Europe. Their travels and interest in cooking led them to shop for food in open air markets around the world, so they were very pleased to find Philadelphia’s Italian Market, a unique ethnic market that’s more than 100 years old and still thriving. It’s still a really colorful place to visit and a great source of fresh, local, and special foods. As the authors wrote in their book back then, “It is a world of its own. Many of the shops have been there for 50 years or more, and still the old ways of doing things prevail.”

This booklet came out in 1979, so it’s about 40 years old now. That’s long ago enough that I couldn’t resist looking the two authors up on the internet to see if I could find them. I was happy to discover that Irina Smith, at least, has published other books. In 1997 her cookbook / guide to the Reading Terminal Market, another Philadelphia food institution, came out, and a second edition was published just a few years ago in 2015. Both editions were put out by Camino Books, a Philadelphia-based publishing house that seems to specialize in nonfiction titles of local interest. The Reading Terminal book was coauthored with someone else, a woman named Ann Hazan. According to their bios, both of the authors have run cooking schools and still live in the Philadelphia area. They also published at least one other book together, something called The Original Philadelphia Neighborhood Cookbook in 1987. I may have to buy a copy of this one. I’m not much of a cook but I’m married to someone who is, and we are very happy to live in our Philadelphia neighborhood, except for on trash day in the summer. Even if I didn’t live here, I’d like the idea of these highly local cookbooks. Food and place are two ideas that are very closely intertwined, at least tradtionally, and like Taormina, Hazan, and Smith, it’s a tradition I’d like to hold onto.

None of this is especially important or interesting to note, I guess, but I think it’s cool. I like thinking about women who travel the world on their own, and I like people who like Philadelphia, my home by birth and by choice. More than anything, I feel a lot of affection for this early published work of theirs that, in the great tradition of community cookbooks, was carefully written out by hand by women who were working together to make something good. 

 

A Woman of Letters

I got a letter from a pen-pal today, which I saw when I went downstairs to take a break from my work and eat a little lunch. The letter is now sitting on the floor beside my writing desk, unopened, next to a pile of books and a notebook that I jot down ideas and other nonsense in. I don’t usually make myself wait to open a letter, but I’ve taken this week off from my job to do some writing, and being disciplined has felt like an important part of that. When I knock off at five I’ll treat myself to a gin and tonic and the reading of this letter. 

What I usually do is greedily tear the envelope open immediately after pulling a letter out of the mailbox. When I lived by myself and had a P.O. box, I read my letters as I walked the few short blocks home with them. I never thought about this habit one way or the other until a few years ago, when a pen-pal friend (who is also an in-real-life friend) told me that she won’t open a letter until she has the time to answer it, which means a few weeks might pass between the time she receives it and the time she reads it. !!! I could hardly believe what I was hearing. Who has that kind of self-control? 

I’ve got around 20 pen-pals, I estimate, at any given time—though as anyone with pen-pals knows, this number is always in flux. Letter-based friendships go through ups and downs just like other relationships do, and people sometimes drop off in their correspondence because they don’t have as much time to sit down and write a handwritten letter as they once did. I’m also adding new pen-pals to the mix all the time. Most of my pen-pals are people I’ve met at through zines: after a good conversation at a zine fair, or because someone wrote me a letter in response to the zine I sent them in the mail. I have most often acquired pen-pals without meaning to. Like, if a friend gives me a gift or does something thoughtful I’ll write that person a thank-you note, and if they respond to the note with a letter, then it is on. 

One of the interesting things about having a number of pen-pals is seeing how varied the friendships are. Some folks write letters that are very in-the-moment: They’ll tell me where they’re sitting as they write, what they’ve been thinking about that day, what they plan to do after lunch. Those people tend to write shorter letters, more often. Others use letters—or their letters to me, at least—as a space where they can share really intimate things. These letters can be pages and pages long, and their writers don’t usually send them too often. The first type of letter is wonderful because it’s like having one conversation that goes on for months or years. The second type is wonderful because it’s like reading something more literary: a personal essay or an excerpt from a diary, only it was written just for me. A readership of one. 

I like to talk as much as I like to write, and having a letter corresondence with someone is both things at once. At its most highly developed it’s an art form, and it provides something like the kind of satisfaction you might feel if you could write a letter to your favorite book—and THEN IT ANSWERED YOU. It’s the closest I’ve come to living a life that is pure mind—my mind connecting with your mind—and yet the physicality of the letters themselves is an integral part of the pleasure of all this. Pretty writing paper, flecks of food or coffee stains, cute stickers on the envelopes, idiosyncratic handwriting styles that you have to squint to make out—all of these things bring the letter writers to life. I don’t tend to wonder very much about what my pen-pals look like, and I wonder if this is due to the fact that I know what their letters look like, and those serve as a kind of stand-in for their physical presence.

I have saved damn near every letter I’ve ever been sent. In a closet in my home office I have a few plastic bins that are full to bursting with thousands of them, including some folded-up notes on index cards and notebook paper that girls passed me in class in the sixth and seventh grades. Yeah, no kidding. I have a bit of a tendency to hoard things generally—clothing, thrift store tschotschkes, stuff that belonged to my parents—and at any given time, I’m considering which of my dubious collections should be on the chopping block. But never the letters. I don’t feel a whiff of guilt or unease about saving them all, forever. My only wish is that they could be reunited with the letters I wrote in response to them. My collection, as it stands now, is like a puzzle with missing pieces. If I could have back the letters I sent, I’d wallpaper the rooms of my house with my correspondence and go over it like a detective (or maybe like the serial killer the detective was trying to catch). I’m positive I’d figure out something useful this way, even if it wasn’t interesting to anyone else. But then I think, Why wouldn’t it be interesting to another person? I love to read letters that weren’t written to me. You can find people selling old correspondence on etsy and ebay—stuff from the 40s or 60s, often, to a person who was away fighting in a war—and I have read some of these with real interest. It’s wonderful to see the way people who don’t consider themselves writers express themselves in writing. It would be even better to read both sides of the correspondence, though. If these were published in a book, even though they weren’t written by famous people, I would totally read them.

I’ve lost a few pen-pals over the years, and I think of a couple of these people often. When a more conventional friendship peters out, you’re usually aware that you could get in touch with the person if you really needed or wanted to. But these losses are different because I don’t know where the people are, and I can’t know whether my last letters have reached them. It’s a bit like saying a prayer in that way. One such person was a pal from far away whose legal, full name I’m unsure of because I met her through her zines, which she published under a pseudonym. She was smart and funny and wrote with real tenderness and honesty; even her shorter notes to me were characterized by an unusual immediacy of presense. This friend went through something tragic and stopped writing to me a few letters after she told me about it, and I’ve worried about her. I wonder—after I publish this post here on my blog, which is kind of like a letter to the universe, will she see it and recognize herself? Is she okay? It’s possible, probable, that her life changed direction after she went through her big loss; maybe she simply no longer has the need of pen-pals in her life. Wherever she is I hope she’s well and happy, and even if writing letters doesn’t mean as much to her as it once did, I certainly would love to hear from her again someday.

Jan and Stevie

I was just thinking, we only get to read the published diaries of people who are already famous for their writing, and that’s too bad. It seems a shame that no one is interested enough in reading my half-baked yet poetical little trains of thought that they would publish them in a book. I know I personally would be interested in reading the personal diaries of damn near anybody.

The current issue of The Paris Review has excerpted the dairies of the Welsh writer Jan Morris, who they call a historian and essayist but who I have always thought of as a travel writer. She was an extremely intelligent writer, in any case, who packed tons of allusions into every thought and always made interesting connections. The Paris Review informed me that she began keeping a daily journal for the first time at the age of ninety—smiley face emoji—and those entries will be published as a book later this year. The excerpts are as charming as they are impressive. Morris writes about the first time she ever flew in an airplane, a de Havilland Rapide biplane she rode in from Cairo to Alexandria in the 30s, but also about her marmalade preferences and the books she keeps on the passenger side of her beat-up Honda, in case she gets bored at a stop light. (It’s two volumes of de Montaigne’s collected essays—actually, one big book that she tore in half to make them fit into the door pocket. When I read this I remembered that I ripped a book in half once, a paperback copy of A.M. Homes’ novel This Book Will Save Your Life that I was very close to finishing. I was about to leave my house for the airport but couldn’t wait until I returned from my trip to find out how the book ended, and since I didn’t want to have to lug one more thing on my trip with me I tore the big book at its spine and only brought the unread portion with me. After I finished reading that I threw it in a trashcan at the airport. Wonderful book.) 

In her diary, Morris also talks fondly about spending time with her partner, “my Elizabeth,” and the small house and gardens they shared in the Welsh countryside, and I guess what I’m saying is that this sort of accounting makes for very interesting reading. All on its own. I know that Morris had an unusual and colorful life, but do I need to know this to enjoy hearing her talk about drinking coffee at a cafe in the village, or what her shadow looks like when she takes a walk at dusk? I don’t know if I do. Big lives are fascinating but so are small lives. And anyway, even those rare people who get to live big lives are also living out the small details in parallel. Everyone has relationships, habits, preferences, private sorrows and little pleasures. These things are always interesting, provided the person finds the right way to share them with you.

I am reminded of the essays of the English poet Stevie Smith, some of which were collected in a volume I treasure called Me Again. This book also has many of her poems and the quirky, heart-breaking doodle-drawings she made to go with them. I love the book so much that I tend to hug it to my chest before I put it back on the shelf. This is because I love Stevie Smith’s writing, of course, but also because I love thinking about Stevie Smith. A good book is good company, the writer’s voice like a friend having a conversation with you, but some writers keep me company beyond the words they’ve written. They live in my imagination as if they’re people I know, or once knew. This is how I relate to Stevie Smith, maybe because her writing voice is so singular, clear, and true. The details of her life seem to fascinate other people too; the playwright Hugh Whitemore wrote a stage play about her and the household she shared with her elderly aunt, and in 1978 this was adapted into a haunting little film called Stevie that, once I got a copy of it on VHS, I devoured and incorporated into my essence like The Blob. 

One of the short pieces in that collection, “Simply Living,” reads a bit like a strange diary entry. In it, Smith talks about the small pleasures of her quiet life with her aunt, and she describes cutting vegetables in her kitchen while looking out the window, “a slim young parsnip under my knife.” She also talks about taking a break from her work mid-morning, every day, to share a glass of sherry with her aunt. Back when I found this book, I shared a similarly close relationship with my mother, who I lived with and then near, in an apartment around the corner from her house. I made a photocopy of this essay and gave it to her because I knew she would like that detail about the parsnip and the knife, and also because I expected her to recognize the similarity of our relationship to the one Smith had with her aunt. I never said as much—things like this are never explicitly said in my family—but I expected my meaning would come through in my gesture. (In my family we communicate like this, in code, via movie quotes, shared books and articles, and from the imagined perspectives of our pets. “Gracie says she misses you.”) I even went to the liquor store and bought a bottle of sherry for me and my mom to share in the mornings, but we both hated the way it tasted and couldn’t get used to feeling a little drunk so early in the day.

During her lifetime Stevie Smith published a few novels and lots of poetry, to much acclaim. She ran in London literary circles and may have dated George Orwell, and she was awarded the Queen’s Gold Medal for Poetry in 1969. But alongside all this, for all of her adult life, she lived not in the city but in an unstylish suburb, in the same house from the age of three until her death. She worked as a secretary, never married, and lived for only three more years after the elderly aunt who had raised her died. Her life was big and small at the same time. But isn’t that true of us all?

stevie