I’m a big gulp fan. I usually have one a night. Sometimes, though, if it’s a fresh bottle of a favorite pinot noir or red blend, I’ll have two big gulps, or even three.
Floofburger (floofinition) human food prepared for and served to housepets; (slang) an affectionate term for a pet who begs for or steals human food.
In use: “When he grilled his chicken kebabs, he always planned a floofburger, grilling a special kebab for the cats. They started begging for it as soon as it hit the grill.”
I encountered a friend last night. “How’s your writing going?” he asked. I’m paraphrasing the conversation.
As I’d been socializing more, I’d created an elevator answer for that question. “Great. Finished writing a series of five books last year, and then I edited and revised them, completing that at the end of the year, wrote a synopsis of the first novel, and compiled a list of agents for submission. Meanwhile, I’ve started writing a new novel.”
“You’re already writing another book? Don’t you need to take a break?”
“No. Writing is a pleasure. I didn’t need a break. Starting a new novel is always energizing.”
“How do you come up with ideas?”
“There are always ideas. Ideas come on from watching animals, the weather, people’s voices, expressions, and stories, newspaper articles, new inventions, dreams, reading, watching television, movies, music. Deciding which one to pursue is the challenge.”
“How do you decide?”
“It’s really about which one catches the wind and takes off. I don’t make a conscious decision about what to work on so much as I start writing. Then it comes out.”
Thinking about that today as I finish my day of writing like crazy, I reflect on all the story, novel, play, and musical ideas locked up in my mind, wondering which will ever be realized. I think if I physically could, I’d be writing twenty-four hours a day to satisfy my imagination and muses, and that still might not be enough.
Ironically, I dislike socializing. Socializing is an energy thief. It requires that I carve time out, set it aside, and focus on being polite, friendly, and speaking with others. All that is exhausting. Yet, inconveniently, socializing stimulates my writing ideas. Listening to people, watching them, and breaking out of my routines fire new ideas. There’s always a catch, isn’t there?
Now, sadly, time to stop once again. Bummer.
While most of last night’s dreams are strong enough to recall, one dream remains a tantalizing sliver. In it, I was either told or decided – not certain of which – to go to a certain website. The website has four words in its name. The dream is creeping as slowly as the time between since the last season of Game of Thrones, tantalizing me with just…a little…more…about every hour.
Then I’ll stop and think and almost have it, only to lose it.
It’s maddening. Out, out, damn dream.
Flooforous (floofintion) – a pleasant sound made by a housepet.
In use: “Daisy’s flooforous barking announced how happy the golden retriever was to see him.”
Mewincholy (floofinition) – a housecat’s sound of pensive sadness, often with no discernible cause.
In use: “Sitting in the living room, not far from him as he read his book, his cat released a a deep mewincholy, breaking his focus. “What is it?” he asked, staring at his fur friend. In response, she turned to him and unleashed a softer rendition of the same sound.”
Once again, a debt is owed to the house clowder for coming up with a song. One cat was briefly absent, prompting me to say, “Where have you gone?” That was enough to let “Good Thing” (1989) by Fine Young Cannibals shoot into the morning stream. The cat turned up almost immediately after I began singing the song. My cats are always curious about me when I start talking, singing, or typing, apparently thinking, “What’s that sound he’s making? I better go check on him to see if he’s okay.”