The Chicken has Hatched!

Writing, Love, and Entanglement

Evie’s Substack Logo - Artwork by Mackenzie Rogers

Evie and I are part of an exclusive writer’s group that has only two members. We meet every Sunday afternoon in our living room. Preparations for our meetings begin on the preceding Friday night at 7pm as that is the deadline for whatever were working on. What this means is that every Friday night at 6:59pm I plead with Evie to give me, “Just a few more minutes to edit this last little bit.”

“I’ll give you ten more minutes.” Evie responds as if we’ve never played this game before. Emerging three hours later, bug-eyed and twitchy, I hand over the sacred USB. Receiving it with a calm and patient air, Evie then prints off our respective pieces, and we both have until Sunday afternoon to prepare our feedback.

When Sunday rolls around, a tentative edge colours the hours leading up to our meeting. As both of us are riddled with anticipation to find out how our work was received by the other. And yet, since we hold the entire process in such high regard, we are also careful not to reveal, imply, or even hint at how we feel about the others work until our meeting actually begins. Existing between these two poles, we become like poker players trying to read each other’s subtle tells. . .

“So… did you go over my writing this morning?” I ask, feeling for clues.

“Of course, I always do, don’t I?” Evie responds, with the expressionless face of a statue, before launching her own tactless counter. “Did you go over mine?”

“Of course, I did it last night; like I always do.” I reply, keeping my cards close to my chest.

“Good.” She says, as her eyes study my own.

“Yes; good, good.” I agree, as the air between us pulses with the energy of everything left unsaid.

Eventually, the afternoon arrives. As if on cue, our two black cats take their place atop our respective laps, and we get stuck in. Sitting across from Evie, I often fail to take in most of what she says, at least initially, as I am either reeling with elation and relief, or I’m struggling to stifle the disappointment pulling at my face. Once she has delivered her overall feedback–which is always comprehensive, fair, and measured–I ask a million follow-up questions, and then we dive into the nitty-gritty details of the line-by-line edit. After that, Evie goes to great pains to humor me while I ask even more pedantic questions. To wrap up my turn, I read my piece out loud, Evie cheers, and I bow graciously.

A five-minute intermission follows, in which one member makes tea and prepares a snack, while the other stretches their cunty back. After intermission the roles are reversed.

Giving Evie feedback is equally nerve wracking because the last thing I want to do is upset her, and yet, we have both agreed to be as honest as necessary to help improve each other’s work. And so, sometimes I have to watch disappointment pull at her face. This is incredibly rare, however, as Evie is a fantastic writer whose prose oozes with an unparalleled style and grace. Evie is also far less neurotic than me, which ensures I don’t have to humor her by answering a bunch of unnecessary questions.

Instead of ending once Evie has graciously bowed, our meetings often meander into deep discussions that centre around the trials and tribulations of the craft, or whatever themes our writing happened to touch on that week. Carrying on well into the night, these discussions leave us basking in the glow of transcendent joy that comes from sharing our passion with the person we love.

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For me, this whole process is writing. It’s the only way I’ve ever done it. In fact, before Evie came along, my so-called ‘writing’ amounted to nothing more than boring philosophy essays for university, and the shameful scrawl I’d scratch into my notebooks. Like the writing mentor I didn’t know I needed, she encouraged me to type up some of my scrawl and share it with her. Terrified by the prospect of embarrassing myself in front of this girl I liked, my hand trembled as I gave her that first piece. In the most delicate way possible, Evie assured me that I had every reason to be terrified as what I’d produced was tantamount to flaming hot feces. Luckily for me, however, Evie reckons I’m not too bad to look at, and so, she decided to stick around and offer a few pointers. As if stemming from the same vine, from then on, our exclusive writers club and our relationship weaved themselves together as they blossomed–intertwining in numerous ways that have brought us even closer together.

Given our entanglement, it should come as no surprise that I have the utmost respect for Evie’s opinion. If she says one of my pieces isn’t up to par for whatever reason, (and believe me Little-Miss-Literature-Degree always has a reason) then I accept her opinion unequivocally. Okay, sure, I still question her at every turn, but nine times out of ten–the bitch is right. On occasion this has meant pieces I intended to share on this very Substack were scrapped on account of nothing more than Evie’s word. I don’t say that to make her sound like some sort of literary tyrant, I say it because that’s how much I respect her opinion. After all, not only is she one of the best writers I’ve ever read, but her impact on my writing has been profound. She’s helped me find my voice as a writer. She’s expanded my palate as a reader. She’s shown me what not to do when it comes to humor writing, (I’m just joking Chicken, you’re very funny…). She’s repeatedly guided me away from doubt and pointed me towards curiosity, whimsy, and the pursuit of creativity for its own sake. And she has continuously inspired me, simply through her example, to honour my artistic integrity and not just write something because it’s what I think others might like. And as if that wasn’t already enough, she was also the genius who encouraged me to call my Substack, The Curious Platypus.

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Evie’s opinions don’t just come from her literature leanings and her infatuation with the craft–she is also a book freak. Like a full-blown-crazy-cat-lady-level book freak. There are so many ways I can convey the extent of her madness, but my favourite is to illuminate another little game we play. . .

“Hey Chicken, how ya goin?” I ask, as I walk into the living room after arriving home.

“. . .” Failing to register my presence, Evie says nothing, choosing instead to remain swept-up in her book.

“Okay, well, I’ll just go fuck myself then.” I mutter.

“. . .” More silence follows, as Evie sits frozen on the couch unaware that in the world outside her book, I am dying for her attention.

Realising she doesn’t know I’m home; I often find myself watching her, wondering things like: What would happen if someone broke in? Or a fire broke out? Would the burglars just empty the place as she sat there? Would the firemen find her burnt remains still sitting on what’s left of the couch?

As a supposedly mature adult, I’m ashamed to admit that far too often I also consider scaring her–but I don’t (most of the time). Instead, what happens is that at some point, often as long as twenty or thirty minutes later, Evie will randomly resurface and say something like, “Ohh, hey, your home; when did you get back?” Or sometimes she’ll flat out forget I even went out, and just ask, “Did you say something?”

“Yes, I did,” I’ll respond, indignantly, “there was a fire in the kitchen, and I was hoping you could grab the hose, but don’t worry I got it sorted.”

Evie’s book madness also manifests in her accosting me as I go about my days. I’ll be in the kitchen cooking dinner, and she’ll appear out of nowhere with a wide-eyed look of child-like exuberance on her face, and instantly, I know what’s about to come.

“Go on then, let me hear it.” I concede.

Launching into some animated spiel about the book she’s just finished, my adorable girlfriend transforms into an impassioned fanatic. Going deep, she covers all the in-depth analysis that would no doubt make her literature professors proud, but most of which goes over my head. Once she finally stops to take a breath, her metamorphosis recedes. Her shoulders return to their resting position, her arms arrive back at her sides, and the wild glint in her eye’s fades as she assumes her normal, much calmer, state of being.

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Watching Evie talk with such passion about books, literature, and writing, I often feel as though she should share her enthusiasm about these things with the world. . . Which is why it gives me great pleasure to announce the relaunch of her Substack!

Under a fresh new name–The Hen House–Evie’s Substack promises to be a fabulous exhibition of feather-flapping fun. Offering an eclectic mix of spellbinding short-fiction, expert book reviews delivered with fervid passion, and plenty of fascinating non-fiction (some of which may even be about a certain Platypus)–this incredible publication will no doubt become the coolest place on the internet. And so, I encourage all of YOU, my wonderful Substack homies, to not only head over and check it out, but to also welcome Evie to our little community.

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Ohhh, and just in case you were wondering, yes: this piece did go through the same process as all my other writing. In fact, after being vetted by Evie at our last meeting, this piece carried the two of us into a rather enchanted discussion about the entangled beauty of our writing and our love.

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