The distinctive frequencies of The Magic School Bus theme pulsed the air, as June slid in the front door after another long day on campus.

Surfing on a soundwave,

Swinging through the stars.

There was something about recorded, packaged sound—capable of being reproduced in perfectly identical fashion a limitless number of times—that gave it an eternal, timeless quality, as if it existed external to time itself. As if, in being crystallized into an “official” version—accessible at whim—the digital recording had become but a representation—a copy[1]—of itself [2], existing here among the shadows.

Take a left at your intestine,

Take your second right past Mars.

On the Magic School Bus.

The familiar refrain was exactly the same, every time. This could be any day. This could be so many different versions, indistinguishable from one another. And she was fine with that. He would gladly exist forever in this particular crystalized eternity.  She wandered through the empty living room, past the blaring, unwatched television, and toward the sliding glass doors that opened onto their verdant yard, where every inch from patio to fence was covered in some form of well-manicured, well-loved flora. As she gazed out, she squinted against the orange rays of the evening sun and the resulting glare on the glass doors. She opened the door and walked over to where John was seated, watching Jack play with a sensory water and sand toy situated next to the swing set, and slid into the glider next to him.

            “So, what do you think?” June asked, her feet skittering along the concrete of the back porch as she the glider carried her and John gently back and forth through the warm evening air. There was a coalescence coming, if it wasn’t here already—the scene between bill and AK had only made her more certain of it—but she couldn’t be sure when or how, and that troubled her. If all she had was a window into their worlds, what was she supposed to do if something terrible happened on the other side of that foggy glass?

            And what would happen if the glass broke?

            “You want my honest opinion?” John asked. He was seated at the wire mesh table opposite them, the smell of pine shavings still fresh on his jeans.

            “Always.”

            “Mommy, push!” Jack commanded, running over to the swing set.

            “You got it, kiddo!” she exclaimed, hopping to her feet and giving the swing a gentle shove. He kicked his feet, which weren’t yet long enough to reach the pavement. Jack whooped in delight as it carried him higher. “So?” she prompted.

            “This might be a bit of a low-brow question,” he replied slowly, “but… where’s the plot?”

            June’s pushing slowed a little. “What do you mean?”

            “I mean, I’ll be the first to admit I’m no expert on writing,” John replied, “but doesn’t a story have to, you know… go somewhere?”

            “It’s funny,” June mused. “That’s what I always used to think, too. But now I’m starting to wonder if it’s the characters that make the story, and not the plot.”[3]

            “I would argue it’s a combination of both,” John replied. He was humoring her, and she knew it; there would be more pushback coming, more questions about what she thought was real, but now was one of those moments when his resistance clashed up against his love for her—and his love won out. It was a dangerous thing, to care this much about someone [4].

“You have to give the readers a reason to care about the characters, don’t you? To make them keep reading? Isn’t that where the plot comes in? Arc?[5] Characterization? Backstory? Some of the best stories—maybe all of them—have a hero’s journey structure. They have a backbone. They have an armature.”

            “I…” Her pushing slowed a little more. “Hmmm.”

            “I mean, every good story I’ve read goes somewhere,” John went on. “Everything that happens in the plot is leading up to something, right? That’s the moment when it all gels.”

            “So, what’s your advice?”

            John leaned forward in his chair. “In my opinion? You have to stop writing in circles. Figure out what it’s all leading to. Start there and work backwards or start at the beginning and follow it to the end or maybe we practice by talking about our favorite movies or books and discussing the hero’s journey structure? I think you have to stop looking at this as an exercise in just spending time with these… characters. And you have to find the story, June.”

            “Yeah,” she said in a distant voice.

            “Mommy,” Jack said, kicking his feet once more, “Push!”

            “Of course, my love.”

            She resumed her pushing with renewed enthusiasm, listening as Jack’s surprised yelp gave way to a bubble of giggles, and that was when something happened. Perhaps it was from the realization that John was right, that she had to find the story herself—that she couldn’t wait for it to come to her—or perhaps it was just that sound, a child’s giddy peal of perfect laughter. She let the rhythmic magic of pushing her baby sweep through her. A thought arrived from nowhere and everywhere.

Somewhere, a carriage return chimed.

And she heard the keys dancing:

If one version knows, all versions know.
——

[1] How many copies are there? How far do the infinity mirrors go?

[2] From Jean Baudrillard's "Simulacra and Simulation" The simulacrum is never that which conceals the truth—it is the truth which conceals that there is none. The simulacrum is true." Simulation and simulacra are two related concepts that refer to the artificiality of contemporary society. Simulation is the process of creating a model or representation of reality, while simulacra are the copies or reproductions of that reality. In other words, simulation is the act of producing a copy, while simulacra are the copies themselves. The term simulacrum can also refer to a representation or image that has no corresponding original, or to a substitute for the real that has replaced it entirely. This idea of a world of copies and substitutes, where there is no real or original, is a central theme of postmodern thought and has significant implications for our understanding of reality and truth. 

The idea of sacramental order in Baudrillard's philosophy refers to the ritualistic and symbolic aspects of our social reality that construct a sense of meaning and purpose in our lives. He argues that our contemporary society has lost touch with this sense of sacramental order, and instead has become consumed by a world of simulations and simulacra that lack any true referent or meaning beyond their own surface appearance. According to Baudrillard, this leads to a state of hyperreality where the boundaries between the real and the simulated become blurred, and our sense of self and identity becomes fragmented and alienated.

[3] Why do we need plot?

[4] Is it equally dangerous to care this much about something? —ED.

[5] Just as big, but no less irritating, was the issue of arc. Your protagonist has to change over the course of the story. It’s boring otherwise. He needs to learn something, grow somehow, transform, literally or figuratively… And why? Humans didn’t change. Humans could seemingly go their whole lives without learning a single thing. Humans could go on journeys and meet people and fight battles—real and metaphorical—without ever breaking free of their flaws. Why else did they always repeat the same mistakes over and over again?

Life wasn’t transformative; why should a story be?

Why do we need arc?