Director's Notes – Episode 101

(NOTE: As always, Director's Notes contain spoilers)

I first encountered the writing of Brie Williams on the wonderful podcast Getting On with James Urbaniak. I asked her if she would be interested in writing something for Night Vale, and she sent us the beautiful piece of writing that is today's episode. If you enjoyed it, I recommend her work on the new podcast A Night Called Tomorrow, and also of course her episodes of Getting On with James Urbaniak. I would especially recommend episode 22, "Status", which is one of the best pieces of fiction podcasting I've ever heard. Brie was also kind enough to write a bit about her writing on this episode, so I turn things over to her now.

– Joseph Fink

“Ruminate” comes from the Latin word for chewing cud, the process by which a cow grinds up, swallows, regurgitates, and re-chews their food. I've always been a ruminator. I'll turn something over and over in my mind until it becomes a weird chewed-up version of itself, makes me nearly ill, then I recognize how distorted it is, and it will disappear. But knowing it will disappear doesn't make the process itself cease. I still have to go all the way through it. I recently decided that I would like very much to skip this process.

Like most writing, this script started with something personal. I went to LA for the weekend and ended up having a romantic encounter with an old friend, and I felt weird about it. On the plane ride home, I wanted to sit in the back, stare out the window, and indulge my cud-chewing in peace, but I ended up giving my seat to a little boy who wanted to sit next to his brother. They moved me next to a smarmy couple from Silicon Valley who ceaselessly chattered about their work and their Priuses. For this act of martyrdom, I was gifted unlimited free drinks by the flight attendant. All these factors did not help matters at all. By the time I landed, I was so tipsy and tragic that I demanded a friend take me out to nachos, and then I wept while eating nachos. All the while imagining that maybe I was in love with my friend in LA and that this casual event had ruined any chances I had with them, and simultaneously knowing that none of this was actually true, and that the whole thing would likely not bother me in a week or so, or possibly even by tomorrow. I became frustrated that I had to experience these overblown emotions regardless, and tried to figure out if I could just bypass them. I did what seemed like the only option: I wrote a poem about it and sent it to a clown. You see, I have a friend who is a clown, and we write each other poems from time to time. The poem was called A CAREFULLY CRAFTED TEXT MESSAGE ON THE MORNING AFTER and it went as follows:

“Thank you for a lovely evening”

cautiously placed

between two neutral sentences –

“Left the key under the mat” and

“Good luck with your meeting!”

much as one might put condoms on the checkout

between a roll of Scotch tape

and a few apples

That made me feel somewhat better, but it wasn't enough. So I chewed and regurgitated the poem repeatedly until it became a big distorted version of itself. Until it became this episode. Until I discovered this amazing landfill on the outskirts of Night Vale where I was able to drop off a lot of accumulated garbage and walk away. And after that, well, I felt much better.

Feel free to use it yourself if you need to; it's open to the public.

– Brie Williams
February 1, 2017