Finding a “Corner of the Universe” After the Trees All Burn

Music Monday 11: Because, at some point, I had to compare my book to The Office

It’s strange how sometimes, art connects in ways we never anticipated. While writing When the Trees All Burned, I had a soundtrack that helped shape the atmosphere—songs that carried the weight of ending and beginning, of destruction and possibility. But then, I found myself drawn to an unexpected addition: “Corner of the Universe” by Creed Bratton.

Yes. Creed Bratton from The Office. Before he was quality assurance at Dunder Mifflin, he was a legitimate musician with The Grass Roots in the ’60s. Now, his solo work has a playful quality that, surprisingly, resonates with the themes I explore in my novel.

While building Eden, crafting Rajiv’s newsletters, and imagining the literal end of the world, I never thought I’d find echoes of my work in a song by a man famous for sprouting mung beans in his desk drawer. But art is funny that way—connections emerge in the most unexpected places.

In When the Trees All Burned, I wanted to explore what remains when everything familiar is stripped away. For Aiya, it’s the possibility of love after abuse. For Maxine, it’s the raw desperation of being separated from someone you love, staring at a phone screen with dwindling battery just to remember their face. For Edgar the cat, it’s pure survival instinct. Each character will find their corner in a universe that’s been reduced to ash.

The most poignant moment of writing, for me, was crafting those scenes in the mine where my characters realize this isn’t a drill—this is truly the end. That balance of horror and acceptance is the emotional core of the novel, that pivot point where denial becomes impossible. Creed’s song—with its gentle reflection on finding place and purpose—feels like it could be playing with perfect irony over the epilogue, as Edgar the cat curls against the cold wall inside his rock fissure while the world outside lies silenced, or as Victor Korsakov stares down at the ashen planet from the Space Station, perhaps the last living human witnessing Earth's transformation into something unrecognizable. The folksy, unpolished simplicity of Bratton’s voice echoing ‘this is my corner of the universe’ as the camera (if this were a film) pulls back to reveal a desolate landscape of grey—there’s something darkly poetic about that pairing.

I’ve always been a fan of The Office. The show’s ability to find humanity in mundane moments mirrors what I tried to accomplish in my novel—finding humanity in extraordinary circumstances. Creed’s character—eccentric, disconnected, yet oddly wise—embodies the kind of unpredictable resilience that my characters discover within themselves.

There’s a line in my novel where Jude observes that “human connection, in the end, is the only thing that truly matters.” I think Creed’s song gets at this same truth—that even in chaos, we seek our corner, our meaningful connections. When I wrote about Brett and Jude finding each other, or about Bonnie and Maxine being separated, I was exploring that very human need to carve out significance in an indifferent universe.

As an author, I find these unexpected connections between my work and the wider world deeply satisfying. They remind me that themes of survival, connection, and rebuilding are universal—whether they appear in a post-apocalyptic novel or in a song by someone we all know and love as an eccentric character actor.

So I’ve added “Corner of the Universe” to the unofficial soundtrack of When the Trees All Burned. It feels right—a reminder that even when all seems lost, we can still find our place, our corner, our reason to continue. And if that wisdom comes from Creed Bratton? Well, as he might say, that’s just how the mung beans sprout.

If My Characters Worked at Dunder Mifflin...

Just for fun, I’ve been thinking about which Office characters my novel’s protagonists would be. Rajiv Montgomery Noah is definitely a Robert California with his enigmatic speeches and grand vision. Aiya has major Pam energy—artistic, stuck in an unhappy relationship, and gradually discovering her power. Jude would be a documentary-making Jim Halpert, observing the world with a wry detachment that hides her deeper feelings. Brett gives me Toby vibes (pre-strangler theories, of course)—quietly carrying his sadness everywhere he goes. Maxine is an Angela-level loyalist but with Kelly’s emotional intensity.

Interestingly, there’s no Dwight Schrute in my novel, which feels significant when you think about it. Dwight—with his bunker preparations, wilderness skills, and adamant belief in his own survival superiority—seems like the most apocalypse-ready character on the show. He’d tell you he has a 200-page survival guide and enough provisions to last seven years. But Rajiv’s algorithm would never select him for Eden, and that reveals something crucial about my story.

In When the Trees All Burned, survival isn’t about tactical preparedness or self-sufficiency—it’s about what you bring to a community. Dwight’s rigid worldview, social awkwardness, and inability to connect authentically would make him a liability in the delicate ecosystem of a post-apocalyptic society. His black-and-white thinking and authoritarian tendencies are entertaining on a sitcom but catastrophic in a crisis where empathy and cooperation are essential.

And there’s no Michael Scott either. The bumbling, well-intentioned but deeply self-absorbed leader would be disastrous in a true crisis. While Michael’s emotional intelligence occasionally shines through in beautiful moments, his constant need for attention, validation, and control would be destructive to a rebuilding society. The apocalypse has no room for “that’s what she said” jokes or tone-deaf costume parties. Rajiv may have elements of self-importance, but unlike Michael, he has the vision and capability to execute his plans with precision. There’s no room for impulsivity in Eden.

The truth is, sitcom characters work because they’re exaggerated, but my novel explores what real people might do in unimaginable circumstances. The Office makes us laugh because Michael and Dwight lack the self-awareness to see their own ridiculousness. In the crucible of the apocalypse, such characters would either transform radically or perish—and transformation isn’t what makes them funny.

Rajiv’s algorithm looks for beauty, adaptability, and the capacity to build a genuinely harmonious society. Dwight would be out there in his bunker on Schrute Farms, surviving physically but missing the point entirely—that rebuilding humanity requires more than just staying alive. It requires the ability to truly see others, something Dwight consistently fails to do.

So while Edgar the cat captures that Mose Schrute energy (innocent, confused by human behaviour, and yet somehow likely to outlast everyone), there’s no place for Dwight in Eden. He'd be one of those preppers out there in their individual bunkers, “winning” at survival while humanity’s deeper essence—our capacity for connection—burns away with everything else.

The real lesson of When the Trees All Burned isn’t so different from what The Office ultimately taught us: individual quirks aside, it’s our connections that define us. And in that way, perhaps both stories find their corner of the universe in the same emotional truth.