Shooting around just hasn't been the same since I quit basketball two years ago. I've always loved playing, but I also loved having people there to watch me; it doesn't really matter how many three-pointers I hit (or miss) if I'm throwing up shots in an empty gym. That might sound a little self-absorbed, but I just want to spend my time and energy on something that affects the people around me, even if it's something as trivial as a basketball game.
I feel the same way about my writing.
As a Journalism/English major, I consistently write fictional stories for my classes. Normally, my professor is the only other person who reads them—and it seems like a waste to spend hours on a piece of writing that ultimately ends up buried in a folder somewhere on my Mac.
So, I decided to share this one. It is a letter written from Alan Alexander (A.A.) Milne, the creator of Winnie-the-Pooh, to his wife Daphne. It's a little weird, but I hope you enjoy it.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
November 17, 1936
My Dearest Daphne,
I’m writing you this letter because I don’t know when I’ll be back. I’m guessing you’ll receive this on Sunday, when you return home from your trip to New York City, and I don’t want you to be worried when you show up and I’m not there. I would start off by telling you where I am, but you’d think I was crazy. So instead, I am going to start back from the very beginning:
You surely recall Edward, the stuffed bear that you stitched for Christopher Robin one Christmas. It took you months to complete—and you suffered countless needle pricks—but seeing our son’s smile as he tore off the red wrapping paper made it all worthwhile. Edward remained Christopher’s most beloved present, although he later changed his name to Winnie-the-Pooh (after the Canadian black bear who was made a military mascot back during the Great War).
I used to tell Christopher bedtime stories starring Pooh and his other stuffed pals—Piglet, Tigger, Rabbit, Eeyore, Owl, Kanga, and Roo. They lived together in the Hundred Acre Wood, which was based on Ashdown Forest behind our old home. When Christopher turned six, my first story was published into a book, simply titled Winnie-the-Pooh.
You remember this, I’m sure, but bear with me. You know me well enough to know that I cannot simply pick up a story partway through.
Let me continue. After witnessing the horrendous destruction of the war, I longed for a better world for Christopher Robin to grow up in. That world was the Hundred Acre Wood. It was as close to a utopia as I could conjure up. I wanted it to be a world where creativity was fostered, where life was simultaneously full of safety and adventure.
Whenever Christopher and I walked through Ashdown Forest, the images from my time in the war were wiped away; in their place were Pooh and Piglet flying a kite in the wind, and Tigger bouncing through the forest like a an overly-hyper jack-in-the-box.
The Tigger Bounce
I fell in love with these characters; they became real to me. I created each one of them with so much love, carefully crafting their personalities, attributes, and relationships. They became a part of me and I carried them with me in my heart wherever I went.
Pooh was, of course, my favorite. He was simple and sweet with a penchant for honey. He was so stiff that I once wrote of him, “Whenever a fly came and settled on his nose he had to blow it off. And I think—but I am not sure—that that is why he is always called Pooh.”
His best friend was Piglet, a pig timid beyond description, yet fiercely loyal. I believe he was your favorite, my dear.
Rabbit was grumpy and stingy, but dependable and trustworthy. His biggest problem was Tigger (remember how little Christopher naively thought that tigers lived in the forest? When he found out they didn’t, he created his own animal: a tigger.). Tigger was probably the most like our son at that age; he was energetic and careless, but had an amazingly kind heart. His best friend was Roo, a young kangaroo who idolized his hyperactive friend. Roo’s mother, Kanga, was kind and patient—I believe she took after you! Ah, and then there was Owl. Older and wiser than the rest of the forest’s inhabitants, he was always around to solve the problems that his neighbors so often got themselves into. I liked to say that he was the most like me, but the mere sentiment used to make you roll your eyes back and giggle.
You used to say I was more like Eeyore, the gloomy old donkey who was so pessimistic that he didn’t care whether the glass was half-full or half-empty, because it was bound to be knocked over either way (I, however, would refer to myself as a realist).
But as I was saying, I loved these animals—so much, in fact, that I felt guilty controlling their actions. It seemed to me that my pen had become a whip, forcing them to do as I pleased. I could not bear to think of Pooh as a slave, or to see poor Tigger constrained to the staid ideas of my own limited imagination. I had no desire to be a puppeteer governing the characters’ every move.
And so, I gave them free will.
It was a preposterous thing, unheard of in the literary world. Give creative control over to the very characters I created? Why, they all thought I was crazy!
And perhaps I was crazy, or just a bit too trusting, but I loved these animals far too much to hold them back. Besides, I wanted to give them a chance to love me in return. What good is it to be loved by somebody who has no choice in the matter? More than that, I did not want to force my love upon them. I wanted them to accept my love on their own terms, not because I wrote in black ink that “each of the animals loved each other—and especially their creator, Mr. Milne.”
You had doubts about my decision. “What if they don’t choose love?” you asked. “What if they choose evil, rejecting both you and their neighbors? The Hundred Acre Wood could turn into a war zone. Are you sure it’s worth it?”
I believed it to be not only worth it, but necessary as well. I saw no choice but to give them freedom. I knew that their reward for accepting my love was so great that I could not think up any reason to withhold it from them—even if it meant that some would reject my love and all the blessings that come with it.
That was two years ago, you may remember, and a lot has certainly changed since then. The media coverage has been relentlessly brutal in chronicling the destruction caused by my characters. Reporters say that I must be evil to allow a world as horrible as the Hundred Acre Wood. “Either that,” they say, “or he’s powerless to stop it.”
It started, more or less, with Tigger. He had been secretly stealing items from Rabbit’s garden for years, but his theft eventually escalated to full-out larceny. He devised intensive plans to sneak onto Rabbit’s property and steal his crops; mainly he wanted corn, which he could use to make whiskey. Since the spring in his tail was far too loud to go undetected, Tigger inveigled the naive Roo to become his accomplice (at this time, Kanga was forced to work long hours so that she could earn money to restore her home, which was badly flooded on a very blustery day, and so she often left her son under Tigger’s supervision). Roo was eager to please his older companion and began to regularly sneak into Rabbit’s garden, taking with him bushels of the rabbit’s carefully harvested crops. Tigger then began the long process of creating and storing the whiskey. A year later, the whiskey was ready and he found but one buyer for the beverage: Pooh, who was running low on honey and had never before heard of the alcoholic drink. After convincing the bear that whiskey was cheaper and had fewer calories than honey, Tigger adapted a new slogan for his underground business: Moonshining is what Tiggers do best!
The first story to gain the attention of the general public was that of a drunk Pooh stumbling through the Hundred Acre Wood. The London Times wrote, “The once-beloved Winnie-the-Pooh was found passed out this morning, after consuming a substantial amount of hard liquor the night before. The bear never had much self-control, but that was not too much of a problem when he was devouring pots of honey; whiskey, though, should be consumed in moderation, a concept as foreign to Pooh as wearing pants. After tossing out discriminatory remarks at his neighbors, Pooh continued down to Rabbit’s garden, where he replaced the carrots with empty bottles of alcohol. The next morning, Piglet found him passed out on the wooden Pooh Bridge, where in simpler times the two used to play the harmless game of Poohsticks.”
Oh, Daphne, I’m sure you remember my horror when I first read of the incident two months ago. My heart was broken into the tiniest of pieces at the thought of Pooh lying on that bridge amidst his own vomit (which, thankfully, The London Times did not record). I grieved heavily over the situation, mourning the loss of innocence in the place that I had created as a safe haven from the evils of our own war-torn world.
Unfortunately, though, worse happenings were still to come. While you’ve been in New York visiting your pregnant sister these past two months, the Hundred Acre Wood has turned into an utter disaster.
After so many of his crops were stolen, Rabbit built a fortress around his property to keep out all guests. He is hoarding his vegetables and refuses to share food with anyone. Many of his neighbors were not as well-prepared for the flood as he was, and their entire food supply was ruined—but still Rabbit will not share. Tigger, meanwhile, went through his stock of stolen goods rather quickly and for weeks was too heavy to bounce. All out of food and unable to move around much, he convinced Roo to find a way around Rabbit’s blockade. That night, the young marsupial fell while stepping into a hole which Rabbit had covered in leaves as a booby-trap. Kanga grounded her son for three months; his punishment has since been extended to six months after he snuck out of his house and was found carving his name into the side of Piglet’s home.
Seeing his friends in such turmoil has caused Eeyore to stumble into a deep depression. He hardly leaves his humble abode (which, now that he has gotten his bounce back, Tigger purposely knocks over again and again) and doesn’t speak to anyone. Rumors are swirling that he is intentionally eating poisonous berries and that he tried to throw himself over the wooden bridge and into the river, knowing very well that he cannot swim.
 |
| Every silver lining has a little black rain cloud. |
Piglet is doing no better. The fragile animal has grown especially weak after months of limited food. He has mostly survived on leaves and grass, a diet not wholly satisfactory for the poor little pig, and has recently come down with a serious case of pneumonia. Kanga has come over a few times to make him soup, but she is hardly able to provide for her own family, never mind Piglet. Pooh hasn’t been sober since his first taste of whiskey; he would probably go over to visit his sick friend but he’s terrified that the heffalumps will come and steal his whiskey, just as they used to do with his honey.
Two days ago, Kanga traveled over to see Owl, hoping that he would be able to offer up some advice. As the most intelligent animal in the forest, he was the worried kangaroo’s best hope for restoring the once-idyllic forest community. The wise old bird, though, was too busy working on a scientific experiment to help.
“Come back another time,” he offered. “When I am less busy. Best of luck!”
So as you can see, my dear, the Hundred Acre Wood is far from a utopia. Once evil was introduced, it was replicated again and again. And now, this is where it stands: Pooh is a drunk, Tigger is a manipulative moonshiner, Roo is a delinquent, Rabbit is a greedy hoarder, Kanga is stressed beyond her limits, Eeyore is suicidal, Piglet is quickly wasting away, and Owl is far too busy to care.
The perfect world that I imagined—a safe place encouraging fun and creativity—has been torn apart by greed, pride, sickness, and natural disaster. However, I have not given up on my beloved creations. Perhaps I am simply naive, but I believe that they can change; it’s not too late for them to turn away from evil and come back to me.
They need to see a better way; they need to see love in action.
And so, my beloved Daphne, now that I have recounted to you the entire situation, beginning when I first created Pooh and his friends, I am assured that you know me well enough to guess where I am.
I love those animals far too much to let them continue down a path to death and destruction. I want so badly for them to turn to me, to understand that I have a better plan for them.
And so, my dear, I see no other option but to write myself into the story.
Yours truly,
Alan
No comments:
Post a Comment