Mouse Interview - Part Two

*If you have not yet read Part One, you can find it HERE*

 

Mouse takes a hard step back in surprise at my unexpected praise, his arms whirling like a windmill as his footing teeters over the edge of the abyss. My arm snaps out as I lean forward in my chair and grasp hold of his forearm, guiding him back onto the solid patch of ground beneath my imaginary desk.

“There now, Mouse… if I wanted to eliminate you, I could have just sat back and watched you plummet over the side. Wouldn’t have even had to get my hands dirty.” I can’t help grinning as I release him, and Mouse heaves a long breath, his eyes wild as he turns to peer at his almost demise down below.

“That was close.” He mumbles, “What would have happened if I’d gone over?”

I shrug, “I haven’t the faintest idea. Dissolved like lard in stomach acid, perhaps? Or erased, like a sketch, line by line?”

Mouse blanches and turns to cautiously step closer towards the safety of the desk.

“Sooooo?” He tries to smile, but it looks more like he’d swallowed something sour.

I roll my eyes in response, “So, the first thing you should do if you want to live on is try not to get on the author’s nerves. Pissing off your Writer is not usually a good idea. You’ll likely end up someplace foul by the end of the story. I’d suggest you try to figure out what makes you, as a character, unique and worth keeping around.”

“I should figure it out? Isn’t that your job?” Mouse sputters in disbelief.

“Yes… yes it is.”

Mouse grows silent, pondering it a while. His dark eyes focus on an abstract thought in the distance and he grins.

“If I agree to your interview, I want you to make me better. I want to look more dashing - dark hair and bright eyes, a fine jaw, built physique. I want to be taller, smarter and more witty. I want readers to be curious and inspired by me. I want your other characters to envy my ability to create my own destiny - through you.”
I just stare at him, stunned.

“I wasn’t expecting that.” I admit, a slow smirk taking over the side of my face, “I’m impressed Mouse. Maybe I’ll keep you around after all.”

Mouse’s eyes widen with dread. He was a flawed character - an incomplete thought - and he’d only thwarted the sad fate of being unwritten with his unexpected and determined offer. 

He’d surprised me. For my own character to do so gave me a reason to keep him around a while longer. Mouse was starting to entertain me, and I was curious to see what else he might have up his sleeve.

I laugh at the startled look on his face, watching impassively as his dark eyes lighten to an amber-hue around his perfectly round pupils. He bats his thick eyelashes as if suddenly seeing more clearly.

“How’s that?” I ask, tilting my head as I watch him poke and prod his own body looking for other alterations, “One step at a time, Mouse. I gave you something you wanted, so now?”

Mouse nods excitedly, “Okay…” He runs his fingers over the top of his head, pushing the wild auburn waves out of his eyes as he starts to pace in front of the desk, “Questions… questions… Um… How about: Who? What? Where? And How?” He finishes his list with a broad grin, his fists landing into the sides of his hips triumphantly.

“Monosyllabic questions? How lazy of you. I thought you were more ambitious, Mouse.”

“Who are you? What do you do? Where are you from and where are you headed? How have you accomplished your greatest achievements? I just boiled them down to a more simplistic form.”

I raise a skeptical eyebrow, “If you say so. It’s still far below the level of creativity I expected of you.”

“You expect a lot from a fictional character.”

“You’re probably right - but I know what you’re capable of.”

“Well?”

“Well, what?” I snap impatiently, ready to call off this whole hopeless endeavor and type out some mundane gibberish about my college degree in creative writing and philosophy and the plethora of strange work environments I’ve inhabited instead.

Both of Mouse’s overly expressive eyebrows shoot up in an expectant sneer, “Are you going to answer my questions?”

“You were serious?”

“My sense of humor is still evolving. In that instance, I was being flippant but sincere.”

“All right. Let’s see…” I mumble, running his questions over again in my mind before deciding to start with the first two, “I’m an author. I write fantasy and paranormal novels and short stories primarily. I do a host of other random, coffee and creativity-fueled projects - like painting, photography and crafty things like crochet, costume making, and jewelry. I spend the bulk of my time when not working, or frolicking in my own head, having mermaid tea parties and ninja helicopter races with my two young kids.”

At my very utterance, a pixelated image manifests like a view-screen over the expanse of emptiness beyond the desk. A faded rug spread over a wooden hardwood floor where a city of Lego-brick buildings shake and shudder. A young girl with ringlet curls and her giggling younger brother stomp through like Godzilla until the highest towers collapse over the elaborately arranged wooden train-tracks snaking through their bare feet. A painted tin rocket-ship zooms through the air, shooting imaginary laser-beams as I chase the squealing children through the make-believe city before crashing down in the center of the rug to invade.

“Really?” Mouse says with a slightly slack-jawed expression, “Not the imposing builder and destroyer of worlds that I’d imagined.”

“Why not? It’s all the same. My kids and I build massive cities and railways, only to mow them down with a toy ambulance, driven by a blue-haired fairy princess who fights zombies. Sounds pretty similar to me, actually. Only I do it on a grander and more complex scale. Writing is cathartic - we, whether knowingly or not, put bits of ourselves into what we create - memories, emotions, experiences - they all hide under the surface, peeking out in conversation, in snippets of scenery, in a lover’s spat… It’s just another lens to view the world. Creating is play, it’s fluid, it’s metamorphosis.” I shrug, “Speaking of metamorphosis, how tall did you say you wanted to be again?”

Mouse held his hand up several inches above his own head, “I’m really not very good at this. Perhaps if you had made me into a reporter or a police detective I’d have a clearer idea of how to go about this?”

“Why don’t you just pretend? Maybe instead of a detective, you’re an actor? You can portray a journalist in some thriller movie, asking me questions for an article that will unveil a hidden threat to the future of humankind.”

“An actor… pretending to be a journalist… who is actually a character… in a fictional interview?” Mouse laughs hard, his whole body rocking against it while shimmers of mirth escaped the corners of his eyes in a handful of tears.

He tries to stand up straight, wiping at his cheeks in an attempt to compose himself. Mouse suddenly gasps as he realizes he is a good five inches taller than he’d been a moment before.

“Now you’re taller than I am!” I say, nodding to myself as I notice the pleased flush of his cheeks. He’s over six feet tall, casting a long shadow over the length of the desk. I squint up into the atmosphere overhead, searching curiously for the source of the unexpected light.

Mouse makes an exaggerated pout, “I still don’t look the part.”

“Stop complaining, Mouse. I could always just shrink you down to the size of your namesake instead.” I say, shielding my eyes as they sweep across the expanse before returning them to the terrified expression on my character’s face.

“No. No.” He says quickly, shaking his head in earnest.

I chuckle under my breath, watching in amusement as he taps his fingers against his brow, desperately scrambling to come up with a suitable question before I change my mind.

“Can you tell me more about your publishing journey?”

I scrunch up my nose and sigh in dismay.

“That bad?” Mouse chuckles, and I respond with equal enthusiasm, my cheeks tight as the echo of our shared laughter eases my discomfort.

“Not really. I have regrets, but I’m learning from them. And learning is the important part. Things change and shift so frequently, at times it feels like I’m swimming up steam, trying to keep up with everything.”

“Tell me about how you started writing then?”

“That one is much easier - I’ve wanted to be a writer since the second grade. It’s been a devoted calling. I’ve known ever since elementary school exactly what I wanted to do with my life, what made me happiest - but the details took a while to develop. I didn’t know what I wanted to write. I dabbled with Jane Austen-esque period fiction and I was an avid lover of Louisa May Alcott’s Little Women as well. I wrote stories about mysterious orphans with mystical abilities, talking fairy animals, pirates… I didn’t discover my love for speculative fiction until shortly before High School when I went to a New York City Book Fair and nabbed myself a dozen or so paperbacks with curiously interesting covers for a couple of bucks. Out of that stack of prized reading material, enough to last my voracious appetite for fiction about a month—”

“A month?” Mouse interrupts and I scowl pointedly at him, “Sorry. Continue?”

“I read a lot, especially when I was younger. I breezed through about a novel or two every week back then. I don’t get quite as much leisure time nowadays.”

“I bet.” Mouse snickers.

“Out of that treasure-trove I brought home, I ended up with two books that ultimately led me to my favorite genre: Fantasy. The first was The Catswold Portal by Shirley Rousseau Murphy. I’ve had a longstanding obsession with shape-shifting cats ever since.”

“I’m sure Silas appreciates that.”

“Maybe not. Have you seen the agony he endures when he shifts? Poor guy…”

“And the other?”

“Luck in the Shadows by Lynn Flewelling. There were many others after, but those two solidified my adoration of fantasy novels and my realization that it was my genre - the genre I wanted to write in. Though they’re not as well known, those two books will always have a special place in my heart. Between them, and my already established love of all things Anne Rice, I started writing my first two full-length novels when I was about fourteen. The first was Firechild, which I’ve written, edited, re-written, changed point of view, and about a dozen other alterations over the past twenty years since I started it. I’m working on it again now - what I hope to be the final version once it’s complete. I’m finally happy with it and ready to finish and put it behind me.”

“You sound hard to please.”

“I am a bit of a perfectionist with my work. It’s something I’ve had to ease up on lately, because non-stop tweaks and edits and re-writes never end. If I don’t stop and allow myself to be satisfied with my own writing, no one else will ever get to read it. It’ll never be good enough for me - even if others think it’s perfectly polished.” I shook my head, laughing at my own stubbornness.

Mouse tilted his head curiously, the tips of his slightly pointed ears twitching, “What about the other?”

“The other novel I started that year? I called it Lusus Naturae, which roughly means abomination of nature in Latin. I originally found the title in a thesaurus, because I was the weird writer-kid who read the thesaurus and found the history of words fascinating. Unfortunately, I mistakenly wrote it down as Lucus instead of Lusus. Didn’t find out until college when I actually studied Latin that I’d written it wrong, which was horrible, because by then I’d finished the book and was querying it out to agents. I even sent it to Tor Publishing on a long-shot to see if they’d be interested. It’s the only time I ever gave traditional publishing an honest shot, and of course I bungled it miserably. I don’t regret it though. I was an ambitious teen and had NO idea what I was doing.  I had the title of my own book written wrong. I labeled it as ‘Historical Fantasy’ because I hadn’t the foggiest idea about genres. Of course it was rejected. Their stated reason being that it wasn’t the genre that Tor Fantasy published. Boy, did I screw that up! I ended up getting contacted by Publish America, which is now called America Star Books I believe, but luckily I steered clear of that mess. I pretty much gave up on trying to get published after that, deciding to wait until I’d gotten a better idea of the obstacles I had ahead of me. I wrote a couple of other books during those years that followed, including a fairy story inspired by Peter Pan and at least two more versions of Firechild… Then I got distracted by life.”

“Life can be pretty distracting.” Mouse says, puffing up his chest like an authority. I can’t help snickering at his false bravado.
At least he was trying.

The strange ethereal light that had suddenly appeared began fading away and I realize my energy is waning along with it. I suck in a slow breath as exhaustion washes over me and release it as a groan.

“After college I got lost in a world of work, bills and rowdy parties that lasted into the wee hours of the morning. It wasn’t until shortly before I got married that I decided to try my hand at self-publishing. I loved the idea of having control over every element of my books. It made not only the writing and story-building aspects, but the whole process, into a creative endeavor. I loved it - I still love it! - but it’s a great deal of work, doing it all yourself. I just wish I was better at the whole marketing mess, and that I’d written more during those idle years instead of pushing it off until I felt like I was a better writer.” I snort out a bitter laugh, “It seems silly now - waiting. By that point, it had been ten years since my last attempt at publishing. The only way to become a better writer is to keep writing - and then write even more. Now I have dozens of books lined up waiting to be written, and never enough hours in the day to write them all. Lost time is probably my biggest regret.”

“Time is relative.” Mouse says with a casual shrug.

“Time is a precious commodity, whether its real or not. Between the daily demands of being a mother to two rambunctious kids, to working my day job, to writing and editing and trying to engage my readers, there simply isn’t enough time to get it all done. I’m pulled in many directions at once. If I could go back and give my younger self one bit of advice, it would be to write as many books as I could before I developed other, more pressing demands on my free time. I’d have dozens of books publishable by now, instead of struggling for three years to finish my first series.”

Mouse sighs, sensing my shift in mood, “Sounds frustrating.”

An uncomfortable silence stretches between us and I pan my gaze over the abstract monuments in the distance. A Stonehenge-like arrangement of large black marble stones lifts and sways on the horizon, the abyss of stars around it rippling like water as it sinks down into the darkness and disappears.

Mouse clears his throat loudly, drawing my attention, and I realize he’s waiting for his reward.

“Ugh!” I grumble, lifting my arm above my head and snapping my fingers with a loud CRACK. Immediately, Mouse’s torso stretches like rubber - his chest widening and puffing out like a balloon as his thin wiry body contorts and leavens like bread. When I finish he flexes his new muscular body with a satisfied grin.

“I like it!” He whistles appreciatively, turning his body to and fro so he can get a better downward view, “Though a mirror would still be handy, if you wouldn’t mind?”

“Do you really need to look at yourself? Being devilishly handsome isn’t enough?” I ask.

“How do I know I’m gorgeous if I can’t see it with my own eyes?”

“Your eyes aren’t even real, Mouse. You’re imaginary -  just like this desk, and this chair, and the swirling galaxy of nothingness that surrounds us.” My patience with him had whittled away and I could almost feel the softness of my pillow as I pictured climbing into bed for the night.

“Don’t go!” Mouse begs, his eyes wide with panic as I start to dissolve back into the real world, “I could ask you more questions. Better ones! I can pretend I’m an actor, playing a journalist—”

“Maybe another time, Mouse.” I blink slowly with fatigue as I watch the remaining monuments sink into the darkness, swallowed up like quicksand until nothing is left.

“But you haven’t finished me!” He whines, his arms stretched out and his face a mask of despondency as I vanish from the scene, piece by piece. Mouse’s look of misery intensifies as more of me disappears, and only my face and half my torso linger, “You have to let me ask you more questions! There’s more that has yet to be made better. We had a deal!”

I shrug the one shoulder I have left, “I don’t have to let you do anything. I’m done, Mouse. You got more out of me than most. Be satisfied with that.”

Mouse scowls, but it looks strangely seductive with his newly fashioned face, “You’re the worst Writer I’ve ever known.”

I laugh again, “I’m the only Writer you’ve ever known. I’m the one who made you into a character.”

He watches with an indignant huff as the rest of my face disintegrates, leaving only my mouth behind. A wicked grin curls the corner of my lips as they too fade away into nothing. 

“And by the way, Mouse - you’re a terrible actor.”

***Thank you for reading my introduction! What do you think about Mouse? Should I give him another shot at an interview? ***