#queeranteam

I started this Tumblr to talk about how Gentleman Jack was helping me get back on the writing track, but then Gentleman Jack actually got me back on the writing track, and I spent all my time actually writing the novel, more on that later.

But now that the first draft of the novel number 18 is done I’m back on the GJ Tumblr train, and I realize that Anne Lister is not just helping me be a better writer it’s challenging me a better wife. Example:

Do you remember that one episode of Gentleman Jack where Ann Walker is having a mental health crisis and she thinks that the horrible voices in her head were coming from inside the clock in the hallway?  

Ann Lister doesn’t argue with her. She doesn’t try and convince her it’s not happening.  She doesn’t make her feel bad, or get her to exercise self restraint or logic. She responds by saying she’s going to fix the clock.  And by fix the clock you get this real sense that she might be about to break the clock.  To be clear Anne Lister knows full well there’s no demons living in the clock, but she also know that being right about that doesn’t mean jack shit in that moment. She knows this moment is not about logic, it’s about the woman she loves feeling unsafe, and instead of trying to convince her those feelings are unwarranted she affirms them and offers to break the fucking clock.

First of all, that’s not totally a sane response either, but it’s the right one, nonetheless. Life is weird, and hard and complex. The world is stacked against them. Mental health is complicated. There’s so many things in life we can’t control, and instead of arguing about things way beyond her comprehension she’s going to fix the thing she can and affirm the woman she loves.

In one of the great sadnesses of my life I am not Anne Lister. 

The other day my wife told me we were almost out of sugar and I was like, “Naw, we’re good.” She expressed again that she thought we didn’t have enough to get through to our next shopping trip and again I disagreed. She sort of wrung her hands a bit and I was like, “Seriously, tell me what you’re going to make with that much sugar?” And she was like “Pancakes, and um maybe scones.” Me: Then we’ve probably got plenty of sugar.  At that point she was like, “Yeah, you're right, I was probably just being silly. I was probably over reacting because I’m nervous. I’m sorry it’ll be fine.”

And the thing was for a few minutes I thought I handled that shit. Logic wins. My logic. Nailed it.  But the thing was my wife still seemed kind of sad. Maybe even sadder than before. Also she’d just admitted she’d been nervous about something much bigger than sugar, and instead of understanding/affirming that I made her feel silly about it.

Well, fuck. We are living in the middle of a global pandemic. We have been in lockdown for 51 days.  I don’t want to be the logic wife during the absurd times. I want to be the passionately, over the top action wife. I want to be the wife who says, “No worries, I’ll fix it.” I wanna be the wife who gets some more fucking sugar. I want to be the wife to calls every one of my neighbors and asks each one for a half cup of sugar until I refill the whole bag. I want to be the wife who puts on a mask and gloves and buys black market sugar at night in a dark alley. I want to be the person who Robin Hoods sugar from the rich ass hoarders. I do not want to be the wife who tries to logic and police emotions through this crazy ass moment in history. I want to be the wife who gets up at two am and breaks the fucking clock!