Reading · The Mundane, and the Magic

Usually, this phrase is offered at the precise moment when someone is contemplating doing something slightly ridiculous. Send the text. Say yes to the date. Apply for the job you think you are unqualified for. Kiss the stranger.

Say yes to the thing you have spent three weeks talking yourself out of. Make the questionable decision that will, at the very least, give you something interesting to talk about later.

Do it for the plot.

There is something wonderfully liberating about it.

It is such an appealing philosophy because it gives us permission to be impulsive. To step outside the carefully constructed lives we have built for ourselves and do something just for the heck of it.

But permit me to analyze this from the lens of a writer.

When I am writing a story, I rarely have a scene that exists for no reason. Even the seemingly insignificant moments have a purpose. A conversation that appears casual might reveal something about a character. A seemingly inconsequential encounter might plant a detail that becomes important much later. A character might spend an entire chapter doing something that appears to have very little to do with the central conflict, only for that moment to fundamentally change the way they understand themselves.

Nothing exists in isolation. Every scene is written in service of the larger story.

And lately, I have been wondering if maybe we should think about our own lives in the same way.

We treat this one life we have like it is elastic. As though it will stretch indefinitely around every bad decision and ill-advised detour without consequence.

We love to treat time and energy as infinite variables, telling ourselves that any mistake can be edited out in post-production, or that every bad chapter is just set-up for a dramatic comeback. And to an extent, it is a solid perspective because human resilience is remarkable. We heal, we regroup, we go again.

Yet, we find overtime that the choices we make leave residue. When every decision is justified purely for the novelty of “the plot,” we run the risk of becoming passive actors in our own lives and letting sensational impulses drive the narrative rather than intentional choices.

So while I’m not here to kill the magic of a spontaneous adventure, I wonder if we’re missing the point completely.

Instead of using “the plot” as a blanket excuse for chaos, perhaps the more pertinent questions are: In what way is this scene actually contributing to the overall plot of my life? Is it advancing me forward, or is it setting me back? Is this experience expanding my understanding of myself or merely distracting me from something I already know?

And most importantly, when this moment becomes a memory, will I be proud of the version of myself that will emerge on the other side of it?

This is not a call to live a rigid or meticulously over-analyzed life. Far from it. When I think of doing things for the plot, I do not think of reckless spontaneity. I think of side quests.

Hear me out.

This life is far too vast, too breathtakingly unpredictable, to treat it with suffocating seriousness and no room for whimsy.

The spontaneous road trip. The class you have no practical reason to take. The book you buy because you like the cover. The ridiculous outfit you absolutely love. The city you visit simply because you have always wondered what it looks like. The hobby you will probably abandon in six months.

These things are like desserts to the main course and ultimately make our lives so much fuller.

The distinction lies in intent. A true side quest isn’t aimless destruction disguised as fun, it is an exploration. It’s allowing yourself to step off the main path to discover a hidden corner of your world, knowing that when you return to the main storyline, you carry new insight, broader perspective, or a lighter heart.

And perhaps that is the balance I am looking for.

I don’t want to live so recklessly that I am constantly cleaning up after the person I was yesterday. But I also don’t want to become so obsessed with making the right choices that I squeeze all the spontaneity out of being alive.

I want to make choices that move me towards the person I want to become, while still leaving enough room to be surprised by who I become along the way.

Because perhaps a good life, like a good novel, needs both.

So yes, take the trip. Wear the dress. Submit the manuscript. Learn the language. Go to dinner by yourself. Say yes to something that scares you for the right reasons. Try the strange restaurant. Dance badly. Fall in love. Fall out of love. Start again.

But every once in a while, pause before you leap and ask yourself:

What does this add to the story?

Because this is your real life and unlike a novel, you cannot edit the first draft once you reach the final page.

Which means we should all be a little more intentional about the chapters we are writing, while still leaving enough blank space for the unexpected.

Enough room for spontaneous coincidence. Enough room for wonder.

I want to take my life seriously enough to care what happens to me, but lightly enough to still be surprised by it.

So maybe the point was never to do everything for the plot but to remember that you are the plot.

And every strange, beautiful, confusing, hilarious, heartbreaking thing that happens along the way is simply another sentence in the story of becoming yourself.

"DO IT FOR THE PLOT."

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