Of Mice & Monetisation
Mice are not afraid of ghost cats. The evidence speaks for itself. If anything, the ghost cat appears to be the one that has been scared off by the mouse; I cannot remember the last time I heard the feline spectre padding around the house.
Conversely, every member of our family has not only heard the mouse, but seen it, at various times, and marvelled at its ever increasing boldness.
Unable to sanction such blatant disrespect, I order some humane traps to ensnare the blithe rodent and evict it. The traps are rectangular, transparent, plastic boxes, with spring loaded doors. I bait them with peanut butter and set up one in the kitchen and one behind the sofa in the front room.
A few days later, I finish work and find that I am the first one back home. Having been a very tiring day, I slump onto the sofa and close my eyes for a moment. I hear a sound like a tiny throat being cleared. I open my eyes and see the mouse by my feet, its tiny fist bunched against its pursed lips, as it once more coughs for my attention.
“This plastic box,” says the mouse. “The one behind the sofa. I want to eat the peanut butter inside. But I am worried about going inside the box to get it.”
I open my mouth to speak. I pause. Then, I say, “It’s fine. You can just go straight in.”
“Why did you pause just then?” says the mouse.
“I didn’t,” I say.
“You did!” says the mouse. “Is it some kind of trick or something?”
“...No,” I say.
“It is!” says the mouse, shaking its head in disbelief. “You’re trying to trap me in a plastic box!” it says. “Why would you want to do that? I can’t believe you would do such a thing!”
“We were going to let you out again!” I insist. “Up the road. In the woods.”
“The woods!?” says the mouse. “It’s freezing out there!”
“It’s not,” I say. “It’s pretty much spring now. The days are getting longer…”
“I don’t know what to say,” says the mouse. “I’m shocked. I’m disappointed more than anything.”
“Hang on,” I say. “Since where do you get off being so self-righteous? You’re the one that’s taking liberties!”
“I am not!” says the mouse.
“You are!” I say. “We probably wouldn’t have minded so much, if you kept yourself to yourself. But lately, you’ve been wandering around like you own the place!”
“Well that’s just typical!” says the mouse. “Here I am, coming in here to offer some advice and constructive criticism and you are treating me like I am an infestation or something!”
“Advice?” I say. “What are you talking about?”
“I was upstairs earlier,” says the mouse. “And I saw that painting, in your bedroom, that’s dated ‘03. That’s 2003, yeah?”
“You’ve been upstairs!?” I say.
“That character in the painting has been in your head since 2003?” says the mouse.
“That’s when I painted it,” I say.
“There’s another one, similar style,” it says. “On the landing, a woman in goggles, sticking her tongue out, dated 2004?”
“Yes,” I say. “So?”
“That T-shirt with the Shaivite warrior woman on,” says the mouse. “When did you make that? About ten years ago, wasn’t it?”
“How do you know that?” I say.
“You were writing something with all those characters in, weren’t you?” says the mouse, its tone becoming more and more accusatory. “What happened to that? What was it called again?”
“Avalon City Saints,” I say. “I wrote quite a bit of it, actually.” But then I got asked to do Rose Coloured Crosshairs…”
“So, why don’t you finish it then?” says the mouse. “Why are you wasting time writing stupid short stories about a mouse in your house?”
“It’s not stupid,” I say, a bit too defensively. “There is a mouse in our house.”
“Who wants to read about that sort of thing?” says the mouse, exasperated.
“Some people do,” I say.
“Do they pay for it?” asks the mouse.
“No, I just post it on The Hypolloi, my Substack,” I say. “It’s so people can try my stuff and then, if they like it, maybe buy one of my books.”
“You can do a paid tier on Substack, can’t you?” says the mouse. “Why don’t you start to serialise Avalon City Saints on that?”
I stop for a moment. The mouse could be on to something.
“It’s a good idea, isn’t it?” says the mouse. “Some people might chuck you a couple of quid every month. You can figure out the exact amount and frequency later.”
“I mean, there is about half a manuscript just sitting on my hard drive…”
“And giving yourself a deadline every couple of weeks could get it finished, couldn’t it?”
“I could draw a picture for each instalment too…”
“Maybe, maybe, look,” says the mouse. “You work out the details. I’m just a mouse. What the hell do I know?”
I sit up, my brain whirring. I suddenly feel inspired. I look down at the mouse, but he has already disappeared.
I fetch my laptop and immediately start to type this story.
The paid tier is coming…
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