I’ve passed 50k words on Orville Mouse and the Shattered Abacus and realized that writing is a kind of mystical version of Schrodinger’s cat. The following is an excerpt from The Thirteenth Monk I used to illustrate that principle:
“I don’t think that’s it, Oliver.” Clara pulled a pink envelope out of her pocket, a mischievous smile on her face. “It’s quite a lovely envelope, and smells distinctly of lilac scent. Who do you suppose it’s from?” Clara blinked her eyes innocently.
Oliver’s usual composure vanished. “Great heavens, I have not the faintest idea who would send me such a letter. Just throw it on the pile with the rest of my correspondence and I’ll get to it later.”
“Mmm… the return address says it’s from someone named Madame Beffy in Grymmsteir. Isn’t she the one you buy all your éclairs from?”
“Madame Beffy… well, yes, of course, she makes the very best éclairs in all of Grymmore. Her pastry shop is quite well known. She is also a very lovely rabbit. We have become rather good friends over the last year, though I have no idea why she might be sending me a letter. Perhaps it is simply a note to thank me for all the éclairs I have purchased.”
Clara smiled as she handed the letter to Oliver. “I’ll stop teasing you now and let you read your letter. Oliver, I’m truly happy you have found a dear friend in Madame Beffy. You deserve all the happiness in the world.”
Oliver T. Rabbit had met his match and he knew it. He dropped all pretense, taking the letter from Clara. “Thank you, Clara. I am quite fond of Madame Beffy and it is my intention to spend more time with her if she is so inclined.”
“If she searched for a thousand years she would not find another rabbit as wonderful as you, Oliver.”
“Oh dear, I really should get back to work now. Stacks of papers to sign and drawings to approve, you know.”
“I understand. We’ll stop in again before we leave for the Timere Forest. Bartholomew says it’s the most beautiful place he has ever seen. It sounds lovely.”
“Yes, quite lovely indeed. Especially now that the giant ants are gone.” He was still chuckling after Clara had left.
Glancing back to make certain the door was closed, Oliver set Madame Beffy’s letter down in front of him. He ran his paw gently across the envelope, the memories of his last visit to Madame Beffy’s Pastry Shop flooding back to him, his senses filled again with the delicious aromas of éclairs and lilac and freshly baked cinnamon rolls.
He picked up Madame Beffy’s letter, studying it closely. At this very moment in time, the content of her letter was a cloud of infinite possibility. The letter could say whatever he wished it to say. Madame Beffy could confess that Oliver was her heart’s fondest desire. She could also say he was simply a cherished friend or a valued customer of the pastry shop. Once he opened and read the letter, this luxury of imagination would come to an abrupt end. The cloud of infinite possibility would be distilled down to a single focused reality, becoming a new truth in his world, a turned page in the story of his life. He leaned the envelope up against his table lamp with a sigh.
“Tomorrow. I’ll open it tomorrow.”
When I’m writing I have access to an infinite cloud of possibilities. What will they find when they open the door to the mysterious ancient Anarkkian bunker? Once I choose from that cloud of possibility it becomes a focused reality — all in my head of course. It’s so fascinating to me how the world of Orville Mouse is growing, the strange twists and turns that seem to come out of nowhere, other dimensions opening up and revealing themselves to me. So strange and yet not strange at all. That’s my thought for the day!