Raccoon and Hare were strolling along a pleasant forest path on their way to visit Beaver. As they chatted, Beaver’s book collection came up.
“Beaver is my friend,” said Hare, “but I just don’t understand why he likes books.”
“They’re made of paper,” said Raccoon. “And paper is made of wood.”
“Yes…” said Hare dubiously, wondering what Raccoon was getting at.
“What does Beaver eat?” asked Raccoon. “Wood,” she said, answering her own question. “So Beaver likes to collect books because it’s like having a huge pantry, just in case you feel peckish.”
“Beaver would never EAT a book,” said Hare firmly. “I’m sure of it.”
“He might if he didn’t live in the middle of a whopping great forest,” said Raccoon. “Because what is a forest made of? Trees. And what are trees made of? Books. Er, no, I mean wood. So Beaver doesn’t need to dig into his pantry of books. He’s probably just worried. About what, you ask?”
“I didn’t ask anything,” said Hare. “And Raccoon, why are you talking like this; posing a question and then answering it yourself? You’ve never talked like that before.”
“I woke up this morning feeling like I might just unexpectedly wind up as a character in a story,” said Raccoon. “A story that wasn’t planned for, until someone besides the author — maybe a family member or something of the sort — had the idea. They probably said something like ‘you know what the best kinds of stories are? The ones with raccoons in them,’ and the author naturally agreed. And so here I am.”
“You mean you think you’re in a story right now?” asked Hare.
“Is it possible?” asked Raccoon. “Yes,” she answered.
“Stop doing that,” said Hare, “It’s annoying.”
“I’m trying to become a memorable character with a characteristic quirk,” said Raccoon. “Everybody likes them the best. You know, like Linus with his blanket, or Pac Man with those cherries, or Captain Ahab with his pet fish.”
“I think it was a whale, not a fish,” said Hare, “and possibly not a pet.”
“In that case, think about Eeyore and how he’s always gloomy,” said Raccoon. “Could I become the character who always answers her own questions? I think I could! Just picture it, Hare, some little urchin toddles in saying ‘mummie, mummie, I want to hear the story about the cute, adorable animal who always answers her own questions.’”
“Leaving aside your unfathomable conjecture regarding the potential of your appearance in fiction,” said Hare, “don’t you think, Raccoon, that this little urchin is more likely to remember that Raccoons look like they’re wearing masks and have rings around their tails?”
“Maybe it’s not a picture book,” said Raccoon. “Not every medium is amenable to illustration. And is every author also an illustrator? I think not!”
“I see what you did there,” said Hare dryly. “But anyway, tell me more about this ‘author’ you’ve dreamed up.”
“Well there doesn’t HAVE to be an author,” said Raccoon. “Even some of Beaver’s books don’t have authors.”
“Are you saying,” said Hare, stopping and turning to look straight at Raccoon, “that some books aren’t written by anyone?”
“That’s what ‘anonymous’ means,” said Raccoon. “Er, that is, what does ‘anonymous’ mean? It means ‘nobody’. Sorry, I’m still getting the hang of my cute affectation.”
“Number one,” said Hare, counting off on his toes, “it is the opposite of cute; you have no idea how annoying it is. And number two, if nobody writes a book, how can there be a book?”
“Do I know all the answers?” started Raccoon…
“NO!” shouted Hare before Raccoon could continue. “You clearly don’t. In fact, I’m not sure you even have a good grasp on the questions, Raccoon.”
“When we get to Beaver’s house,” said Raccoon, “just look in his library. Some of the books say ‘anonymous’ where the author’s name ought to be. That means ‘nobody,’ and the author is the one who writes the book. So does that mean…”
“Stop. Doing. That.” said Hare.
“I just think it would be fun to be famous,” said Raccoon.
“By being the memorable character with the endearing characteristic?” asked Hare.
“Yes,” said Raccoon, “exactly like that.”
“So if there IS a character in a story who talks like that,” said Hare, “that character would probably be a villain, on account of annoying everyone so much. And even so, why would that character make you famous? Even if everybody liked the character, that’s not the same as them liking you, is it?”
“Here is Beaver’s house,” said Raccoon. “You go ahead in, Hare, I’m just going to sign some autographs for my fans.”
“What fans?” asked Hare.
Raccoon pointed. Lined up on the banks of Beaver’s pond were dozens of people, mostly wearing brightly colored t-shirts emblazoned with the slogan “Do I love Raccoon? Yes!” None of the t-shirts, though, had a picture of Raccoon.
“Um…” said Hare. “Who are those people? Why do they want your autograph? And for that matter, what is an autograph anyway?”
“They’re my fans,” explained Raccoon, heading for the crowd, who began to cheer. “Am I famous, Hare? Yes!”
Hare smacked his forehead and went to knock on Beaver’s door before the author — if there was one — could revise anything.
