I was pondering fish the other day. Aquariums to be exact. In a way, I’m trying to accomplish something that resembles an aquarium: literally AND figuratively.

This is beyond the fact that I’ve been pondering how, exactly, I might go about fitting a small aquarium in my office, setting it up atop the file cabinet, and making sure the little buggers don’t die of issues regarding food or cleanliness. This revolves around self contained universes.

Aquariums, watery glass cubes supporting life, are (apart from a minor input of food and heat) miniature ecosystems that are distinct from the world in which they exist. A box of life-supporting liquid, maintained to the precision where tiny animals otherwise doomed to non-existence, are allowed to exist in relative peace. Fiction is something like that. In fiction, writing, we build micro-universes — minute ecosystems — that are maintained by a tiny input of energy and creativity, and allowed to grow into something self-contained and autonomous — and unique from the world in which they are stored, displayed, consumed. Our characters are fish. Our plot is water. Our story is a little glass box, sealed shut but radiating it’s swarming life to the outside world.

When my world lets me find a place to put it, I’m going to build a whole aquarium of fishes.