Niv: Let’s lay some groundwork, some worldbuilding, if we can borrow the term—we’ve been friends for over twenty years. I have a distinct memory of you at a party with a glittery spell book trying to convince me to help you cast a spell, much to my mother’s horror. We grew up together in overlap: neighborhood, high school, Indian parties. And yet we haven’t lived in the same state since 2009. I have to admit I haven’t been able to sustain many of my friendships from high school. I have a theory of our closeness that I think will be interesting to readers and writers—not only were we avid book trading friends for so long, but we’ve always been bonded in our shared creativity. We’ve fed our friendship on our own artistic lives!
Rosh: I remember that spellbook! I brought it with me everywhere. I was so determined to try a love spell, but I think one of the ingredients demanded the toe clippings of one’s beloved and that shit is hard to find. It’s funny you mention the worldbuilding of our friendship. Highschool was such a beast, but we hung onto one another. Our childhood—and our time in the same neighborhood—has a very distinct texture to me. Our neighborhood was so odd. Elitist, southern, gated, country clubbish with manicured golf courses… but also full of wild trees, fearless deer, a secret lake no one seemed to remember and the stickiest of evenings. When we used to ride our bikes or walk around the neighborhood, I never remember it reaching full dark. I think the dusk liked us and hovered. When I think of you, I remember being struck by how wildly talented you’ve always been. I think I wanted to be a painter, but then I saw your paintings when I was ten and legitimately thought “Well fuck me, I better find something else to be good at.” I was writing before I realized I wanted to. It isn’t without some degree of pain that I remember the hours we spent sitting in your basement writing stories on that behemoth of a desktop. Why did we write? WHAT were we writing? Do you remember?
