A tale of a never-ending act 2

Act 2 is the worst.

The common three-act structure immortalized in writing schools all over by the likes of Syd Field states that the second act is for development. It’s where the conflict and the premise established on the first act swell and intertwine. It is, too, where most stories get stuck while they are being weaved, not by lack of options but by excess. There are so many paths one could take to get to a conclusion. So many branches to grow off a conflict. It makes it too easy to get lost on the jungle of act 2.

I realized that, of the many facets of my privy life I leave outside this carefully constructed internet façade, having chronic GERD (gastroesophageal reflux disease) is a topic I even complain about sometimes on the appropriate complaining channels, but other than that do my best to pretend doesn’t exist. Yet it is very present, throwing my life into a permanent act 2, developing, developing, never really resolving.

GERD removed the joy of some simple things I used to love. Of drinks, of foods, of trying new cuisines, of long flights, of having new experiences without worrying about how my troubled stomach will react. For years now, whenever it is under control and I try to relax precautions, a new flare-up happens. In such occasions I allow myself 10 minutes to cry in self-pity, to wallow in how much I'd rather not feel these discomforts on a daily basis, and then pick myself back up, wipe the tears, and take my meds. Cut my bad foods, my bad drinks, a bit of my joy - that’s fine. Accept this body of mine has limitations, and I need to respect them, because turns out this is the only body I have. Flawed or limited, it is mine to care for the rest of my days. A cycle of tending, mending, and starting all over again.

Act 2 isn’t supposed to be a cycle, not per definition. The satisfaction of the three-act structure is that it ties the story up in a pretty bow, mending gaps and finding fulfilling endings. Which is not true in real life. We don’t get closure for everything, and sometimes not having it is closure on itself. It ends how it ends, not with logic or a period at the end of a sentence, but in the abrupt cliff that ends a paragraph with no punctuation to mark that this is it. Many of life’s stories end on act 2. Which is the worst. And it is wonderful.

I try to see the good in what dealing with a chronic, even if mild, illness taught me. How much I learned about myself, my body, and how to take care of it. How it made me kinder to me, in many ways. Other than just things to remove, much was included. Better sleep, exercising, paying attention to my breathing, being intentional about what feeds my body. Caring for my health more than the average thirty-something might. This development act indeed developed something - only this something was me, not a definite cure.

My hope was that talking about this personal and honestly uninteresting topic would help make a case in defense of second acts. But let’s face it, it was useless.

They have always been the best to write.

-Maíra

This issue’s recommendations:

• (Read) Talking to a colleague about the subject led me to this great list of resources to stoke the fires of decolonization in game development. To bookmark and keep close.

• (Play) Gubbins is my new word game obsession with weird companions that help you (or get in your way). Great to test how many gibberish words you know in English. Free on iOS and Android.

• (Listen) I’m the type of ridiculous millennial who never got over Random Access Memories so when Daft Punk briefly got off retirement to release RAM (Drumless version), I don’t know what I was expecting, but anyway here’s RAM without the drums track.