The Perils of a Writing “Team”

Mom Says:

We know what you’re thinking: that’s one really loooong phone call. Yeah, very “amyoozin” as Musashi would say. The fact is that our Blemmy® Nominated writing team has been squaring off in the rabbit coop, trying to decide which way to take the plot-arc of our hero’s story. Musashi and I have tried to hide the conflict from you all, our faithful readers, but Musashi said, “Huh. Trooft is mor suspensful than fikshun aneewae. Bettr jus tell ‘em.” So here’s what’s been happening.

A rabbit we’ll call Peter (not his real name) walked into a bar. (No, seriously, this isn’t a joke.) Sitting at the bar was an older rabbit, who used to write a column for The London Times and over the years did stints in LA, writing for Mr. Ed, Captain Kangaroo, and Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Our writer, “Peter,” immediately recognized him from his column’s picture. Peter bought the old fellow a bunch of carrots, then two. Then the old fellow reciprocated… In short, they were getting pretty relaxed over the beta-carotene and got talking about the Problems of Plot.

The old fart—er, rabbit—we’ll call Occam (probably his real name), started going on about how simplicity is the heart of art or something like that. He swore he shaved his whiskers by this principle, or at least that is what “Peter” swore when they (the other rabbits in the writer’s coop) were forcing coffee down his fuzzy throat several hours later.

Now all of this would not be a problem except that—you guessed it—we already have on staff another writer, an angora rabbit we’ll refer to here as Rococo, who already had Views about the whole classic Simplicity vs. Complexity Question. Naturally, Rococo rejects Occam’s razor out of paw.

Musashi Sez:

Yah. Yu seez our problim. It not eevn a praktikul problim—-how we get Octavian off the cliff which he’s holdin onto wift his front clawz. Nop. We got us a Thee-O-Retikl Problim, an them is the worst kind. Does we go fer the smuth, cleen lines of the Hemin Way? Or does we go fer the elegant yet sofisterkaytid complexitee of eethr the (gud ol British) Dikenzien plot or the (dastrdlee Rushn) Dostoyevskish plot?

This remindin me of whut mai second-choys-fer-Valintyn, M, toldid me erlee on. “Eight,” she sed, runnin her hand thru her perty grey fur on her hed. “Somtimz ther jus no eezee ansrz.”

(PS: Mom mai is ferst choys. Of cors. She has gud kneez fer sleepin on. ❤ ❤ ❤)