Don't Do it for the Plot

Do it for the plot.

E.M. Forster wrote: “The king died and then the queen died” is a story. “The king died, and then the queen died of grief” is a plot. The queen didn’t plot her story, she lived it. It wasn’t until after her death that the plot could be seen. And not by her.

I hadn’t heard the phrase do it for the plot until a few days ago, and now I keep hearing it. The idea is that we should take the risk, say yes to the unexpected, do the thing, not because it’s wise or safe, but because it’ll make for a better story later. The kids are saying it. On TikTok. Do it for the plot.

No thank you.

This phrase, no thank you, is something I borrow from Declan and Olivia’s kindergarten teacher, Mrs. Holub. She’d use it when a student did something unsafe, unkind, or unbecoming. No thank you. A gentle correction. A small reset. The prefix un- means to undo, or reverse.

What if we undid it for the plot? I know, it doesn’t quite work. What if we simply did it (do it). Took the risk, or walked the unlikely path, not for narrative gain, not for the retelling, but because stepping outside of performance may lead to something authentic (real).

While I can appreciate the spirit and intent, there’s something suffocating about the way do it for the plot flattens surprise. It becomes a lens, a brand strategy, a pressure to be interesting. But not every side street advances the plot. That doesn’t mean they’re not worth walking. My friend Andre says we don’t need to hear about every ham sandwich you have eaten. He is not suggesting we don’t need to eat the ham sandwiches, you need to eat to stay alive, we just don’t need to write about all of them. The thing is, you won’t know which sandwiches mattered until later (sometimes much later).

Here’s something that may not be part of the plot. Any plot. But I will tell you anyway.

I started volunteering at the old folks’ residence in my neighborhood. But before that, (weekly) I walked past the building, and I wondered what was happening inside. Each time I saw a sign on the front of the building that said room now available I wondered if the former tenant died alone. I wondered what colour the box they left in was. Maybe there was no box at all, just a stretcher with a white sheet over their body. I don’t know how these things go down. I wondered if there were people in that building who felt as lonely as I did. People who longed for connection. It took longer than I’d like to admit, but finally, one day I emailed the volunteer coordinator, and two weeks later I was onsite for my orientation.

On my way out of the building I noticed they were hosting a Mother’s Day tea. I asked the volunteer coordinator if they needed help serving the residents. She said yes.

I poured glasses of non-alcoholic wine. The label read Carl Jung. I have been immersed in the writings of Carl Jung lately. Perhaps this is what he calls synchronicity. A confirmation: this is where you are meant to be today. It was my fourty-third birthday.

Each time I walked past a woman at the table closest to the coffee urn, she said, I lost my husband. He died. Each time her eyes held the devastation. Each time, I touched her hand and said I’m so sorry for your loss. Each time she nodded her head and said thank-you.

At a table next to hers I watched a woman with her eyes closed try to navigate the plate of food in front of her. I touched her hand to show her where the plate was. Her hand grazed the food on the plate, those are grapes. I said. She took her hand away from the plate. I really shouldn’t. We are having a big dinner tonight when I get home.

Of course, I said. You wouldn’t want to spoil your appetite.

Exactly, she replied.

At a table at the front of the room residents with dietary restrictions sat together. One woman needed thickener in her coffee. I had never thickened coffee before. I asked the coordinator twice if I had done it right, which she assured me I had. When I delivered the coffee I noticed one of the women had dropped globs of pudding on her t-shirt. She had managed to get some of it in her mouth, she had chocolate smeared across her chin. She pressed the napkin to the edge of the table, running her fingers along it until a crease formed. I grabbed a few napkins, and returned. I bent down a little, to her eye level. The woman’s eyes were crystal blue. She didn’t speak, but her eyes held my gaze.

Can I help you? I asked.

She said nothing.

I’m going to clean you up a bit, my eyes told her.

I lifted my hand slowly, showing her the napkin, before I gently wiped the pudding from her chin. She smiled. She looked at me like she had something to say.

I waited.

She opened her mouth.

I leaned closer.

Get to the train, she whispered. Adding, remember… the word is blue.

I will remember. Thank you. I replied.

I collected the paper cups, and plates, and threw them in the garbage.