A starving artist, a horde of mice, and a hurricane. The genesis of a Scurry story.

I’m told that the worst thing you can ask a writer is, “Where do you get your ideas?” But in the case of Scurry and River Rat Blues, my answer is easy: My first attempt at making it in the big city (or Big Easy) as an artist, along with some unexpected furry interlopers.

The idea for the latest Scurry story (now crowdfunding!) actually predates the first one. In fact, it was the genesis of the entire premise—tiny creatures facing things far beyond their control.

A million years ago, I was young, broke and living out of my car in New Orleans. Despite the circumstances, I was pretty happy because for the first time I was scratching out a tiny living as an artist. I drew portraits and caricatures in the French Quarter and the Riverwalk. It was a trial by fire. Sitting in suffocating heat while tourists lobbed unsolicited critiques at my work taught me very quickly how to grow thick skin.

By late summer of that year I managed to scrape together enough cash to rent a shotgun house in mid-city New Orleans—a rundown, dicey area, but it beat the backseat of a car. At least there was a roof over my head (for awhile, anyway).

I rented the house from a shady landlady who neglected to tell me that the place was absolutely infested with mice. I don’t know how many there were, but I probably didn’t want to know. At first I went to war with the little critters, but no matter how many traps I set out, they just kept coming. Eventually, I gave up and blocked off the the back of the house, surrendering it to the mice.

These little guys were not shy either. Often they would come out and gawk at me like I was the intruder. Honestly? They weren't the worst roommates I've ever had. I was rarely home anyway. It was mostly just a place to keep my few belongings while I explored the city.

Unfortunately for me—and the mice—this was the summer of a little hurricane called Katrina. I didn’t even know there was a hurricane in the gulf until a couple days before it made landfall. My mom called and asked what my plans were. At the last minute I decided to ride out the storm at my parents’ house in southern Mississippi, so luckily I wasn’t stuck in New Orleans afterwards. Unluckily, I evacuated directly into the path of the storm, and got to experience my first ever eye of a hurricane! But that’s another story.

What started as a little adventure turned into a two-month exile. When I was finally allowed back into New Orleans, I found my little shotgun house—and nearly everything in it—destroyed.

There was a big hole in the roof and the interior looked like it had been tossed in a toxic blender for eight weeks. Everything was covered in dangerous black mold. Without a mask, I had to hold my breath for quick sprints inside, grabbing only what was salvageable and could fit in my car. I retreated back to my hometown with my tail between my legs, my first artistic adventure being a failure (and not my last), but it was quite an experience!

I’ve often wondered what happened to my furry roommates. They probably had the time of their lives after the storm, feasting off the garbage of the city unopposed for months. I like to think that once they had their fill, they hopped on a piece of driftwood and sailed down the river in search of a new lands to pillage.

-mac