Catnixing

Catnixing takes place when one cat who normally accepts another cat instead rejects the other cat.

“Quinn walked up to Meep to sniff his face but Meep catnixed Quinn with a pullback and a raised paw.”

When Writers Attack

Battling the usual monsters, I’m digging in for the fight. Fiction writing is supposed to be fun. Sometimes it gets ugly.

I respect the process of giving, taking, surrendering, losing ground and forging ahead. Every day seems like a fresh assault on my determination. Like others, I’ve learned that creativity is messy. Stay in it for the long haul, you need patience, endurance and stamina. Add a tincture of insanity, a cup of insecurity and a dollop of angst, and you pretty much have your standard writer. Bake at a secret temperature until undone or burnt to an unrecognizable crisp.

While girding my mind for the trip to this morning’s writing front, I procrastinated. I read others who I enjoy who’d just posted, like Dirty Sci-Fi Buddha, The Excited Writer and Seeds4Life, and caught up with Chris Rodell’s humorous post on the swim meet from Hell.

Nichole on The Excited Writer linked to another post, ‘Patience Over the Long, Long Haul’, by Tracy Hahn-Burkett. Like Nichole, the piece spoke to me about the writing stew and how writers stew and simmer while struggling.

I was fortunate. Each of these posts gave me something that I needed today in their words, observations and messages. A large part of blogging for me isn’t just posting the strange thoughts bubbling through me, flexing myself to begin serious writing, or writing to understand what the hell I’m thinking, but also, and as importantly, to read others in my tribe. These posts today united in a nice synergy of humor and reminders that we may write alone but we’re not alone. They inspired me to press on.

I’m fortunate because I found that encouragement in these posts. I read many others who aren’t nearly as lucky. They struggle to find their voice, to cope with their lives and their pasts, and despair about finding their futures. I’m in a little bit better shape than most of them. That’s why I shared those posts. Maybe others will find the same strength that I found.

Now I’m ready to attack the novel. “Once more into the breach, lads, once more into the breach.”

Hold up; belay that order. I’m writing science fiction. We’re in space.

Let’s avoid the breaches, okay?

Streaming Preparations

Spring is barely awake, clearing her throat.

Give Spring some coffee.

Winter is staggering in, trying to make a last stand. “I shall not pass.”

Cold in here. Gonna be a freezing cold therapy shower.

Look how big my head looks compared to my naked body.

None of the cats like that food with the cranberries in it. Five cats can’t be wrong.

Catvincing. Trying to convince a cat of something.

Jade would’ve eaten it. Jade ate everything.

OMG, THIS SHOWER IS FREAKING COLD. JESUS, JESUS, JESUS.

Woof. Glad that’s over.

What happened to my hair? It looked good a minute ago. What happened?

Good is a relative term.

Not going to trim the beard. Looks okay as is. For now. So don’t look later. Right.

Oh, there’s emails to write and things to do and look at the time. Time to get moving.

Time to go write like crazy, at least one more time.

Where the hell are my shoes?

Today’s Theme Music

Testing, testing.

Can you hear me?

Excellent. Let’s get started.

Today’s theme music is by Fine Young Cannibals. This is ‘Good Thing’, from 1989. I think you’ll be pleased with the selection. It’s a fine song for streaming in your head as you conduct your business today.

Have a nice day.

That is all.

Dreams of Ineptness

What a night of dreams. Given scales of one to ten, where ten is the highest, these dreams were around eights on the vividness and intensity scales. They left me feeling emotionally, mentally and physically exhausted. Dreams of these types trigger speculation that I’m living in the dreams, and the dreams are the reality. So while I’ve been here, living with all of its entanglements and needs, I’ve actually been asleep there. Once I awaken there, I experience that life through my dreams.

Makes sense. In the dreams, I was bewildered about what was going on and expectations for me. Everyone liked me. Nobody was concerned about me. I was just there, part of the landscape. It was an incoherent landscape. Some others and I were in the back interior of a giant parked 1982 Camaro. It was so large, we were standing and moving around without being encumbered. Things were sometimes written on the car’s immense rear hatch window. But I knew I wasn’t doing what I was supposed to be doing. Fueled by guilt, anxiety burned through me. I was going to be found out at any moment. 

Leaving the Camaro, I raced around in a covert frenzy, attempting to cover my tracks and do what I was supposed to be doing all along. The office made no sense. Everything had been moved outside. Meanwhile, new instructions were being introduced. I struggled to stay abreast of the new ideas. I was supposed to be understanding this stuff, using it and explaining it to others. I had little idea of what was going on.

I sought out the people in charge and the files. The files were supposed to be locked up. I didn’t know the combination. One of those in charge confessed to me that the locks didn’t work. They were a facade. She laughed as she explained this. As I tried catching up on my tasks and correct everything, I began learning through intimate encounters with others, nobody else knew what was going on. It was chaos with a veneer of normalcy and knowledge. Nobody else was doing it correctly. Most barely understood what I talked about and laughed when I mentioned it. A series of giggling confessions were shared with me to that end.

Understanding that I wasn’t going to be discovered because I was an inept fraud, I began relaxing. My errors and shortcomings weren’t going to be discovered because everyone else had shortcomings and were making errors. None of them cared about it.

Writing about them, I chortle with insight. Ah, yes, the classic dreams of inadequacy and our latent, perpetual fears of being exposed as a fraud. Do writers ever experience anything like this? I suppose not. Most writers are powerhouses of security and self-confidence.

I should just move on. I would, but I feel too tired. I need to sleep to recover from my dreams.

Now there’s a metaphor if I’ve ever read one.

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