Forgotten notes on the margins

It may not surprise you, reader, because it sure does not surprise me, that once again I start to type a newsletter or whatever this is. Pretends to be shocked, jazz hands, and cue.

This is the first in my long list of dead newsletters in which I wish to write of what I do, and also nothing at all. The pandemic hit us collectively like an indelicate mammoth and no one’s mental health came off 2020 in one piece. For someone whose bread and butter is to observe people and pass on tales of survival, I feel I lost some of my ability to communicate and entertain simply for having barely survived. Or perhaps I am rusty, but both work as excuses to be here, typing from my beloved bed on a winter night.

When I say I tell tales of survival, you may think my job is way more noble or wild than reality. I make games, and write stories for games. Every story is, in a way, a means to an end, the end being to pass down knowledge. That’s how humanity has survived for millennia before we evolved to the point where we harness the power of storytelling to make you cry while also selling you cars. But down to their core, stories are how we survive. As Brian Macdonald says, stories are the collective wisdom of every men, women and child that ever lived.

I have watched more streaming media than I ever imagined possible in this past year, and that of course led me to dark corners of The Algorithm™️, getting recommendations that really should not be recommended to anyone. That’s how I recently went down the reality show rabbit hole.

There is some solace to be found in the absurd premise of reality shows in a time where no routine is normal anymore. Something about the mundane quality of those shows - watching people awkwardly flirt, or a bride pick a dress, or a family argue over dinner - is somewhat soothing. Like having the ability to live through snapshots of someone else’s life. A bit of comfort in the once-ordinary.

Will we ever have an ordinary again? Will the world still be the same when we emerge from this period, battered and scarred, afraid and longing social contact all at the same time, abusing hand sanitizer until our fingertips crack? Will watching Buried by the Bernards make my world whole again, as binge-watching The Greatest British Bake-Off once did before them?

If things go well, my hopeless questioning out loud will at least bring you some entertainment.

These are the Fantastic Tales of Nothing.

-Maíra