Science fiction, fantasy, mystery and what-not
Meowfluence – The effect wherein the meowing sound cats make replaces words in song.
In example: Michael was meditating, only to discover he was under the meowfluence. Meow had replaced his mantra, and he was now chanting the “Meow Mix” cat food commercial jingle to himself. On the other hand, he felt relaxed and a little drowsy now, but had a slight craving for a small treat.
I love this final paragraph: “But embrace it. Work hard so that eventually (and I mean far-away eventually) someone will care. Sure, failure is guaranteed, but in order to be a successful writer, you need to be persistent. The only way to be persistent is to write because you love it.”
Actually, the entire piece speaks to me. I’m dubious of much writing success but I keep going. I enjoy writing. Writing helps me think, understand myself and the world, and it’s a liberating creative outlet. If I wasn’t writing already, I think, based on my mental wanderings as I walk, that I would start writing.
So am a failure as a writer? Naw, I have mostly found my voice. It comes and goes. That, itself, and the process, is as fascinating as anything to me. Most intriguing is when a character steps up and takes off on their own.
In some ways, that’s also counter productive and debilitating. The character becomes a buddy and a guide through the book. When I’m done, I miss them. Or, in this novel, with its six main characters and their variations on life according to what’s happening, one character finishes their piece and steps aside for another. It’s like they go on vacation.
It’s just like ‘real life’ in that regard. When someone steps out of your life for some period, your life’s continuity and routines are breached.
Having six in this book helps. Handley stepped up last week. I became very fond of her, discovering her strengths with her and further refining her individuality. Then she stepped away. After a few days of writing scenes, Philea stepped forward and took over. She’s smarter, calmer and a faster thinker than me, and thinks differently than I do, so I’m quieter and more thoughtful around her. Like me, she’s not socially engaged, but for different reasons.
Got off track. Back to the track. The article addresses the essence of my approach. I write, I’m persistent, and I enjoy it. Someday, maybe it’ll be more than a diversion from depression, drinking and disappointment with the world. For now, I’ll go with that.
by Michael Cristiano
So, you wanna be a writer, huh?
Well, it takes a lot more than just saying so. In fact, one of the most annoying things you can say to a writer is, “I wanna write a novel too, but I…”
And there you go. Insert some excuse as if us writers have somehow been able to get out of things that would keep regular people from attempting a novel or a collection of poetry or short stories. The excuses range from lack of time to lack of inspiration, from not having anything to say to having too much to say (see my post called “Why I’d Rather Pass a Kidney Stone than Talk about my Writing” where I delve into this phrase further).
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Where is the beauty? I see it all around me here but thoughts and events crowd it out. This is one of those periods when I need to look past it all to glimpse the world’s inherent beauty. There’s much calling on me to rail on, but to what point?
Strength comes not from ducking your head or disputing the truth, but in embracing it as your own and ignoring the alternate facts that others senselessly buy and accept. It can be painfully lonely and troubling.
Rains stopped sometime in the early hours. Still dark, the winds howled around the house, beating down tree branches with its footprints and scaring the cats into wary, still watchfulness. Dawn brokered a gray, thin cloud sky but the wind remained a torment. Although anxious, he waited until the wind faded and the sun crept out before visiting Antville.
He’d watched his videos of the place several times since making videos yesterday and the day before. Antville had survived the first storm but it had been mild. Last night’s rain loaded heavy howler probably wiped them out.
But, no. He was delighted to see how wrong he was. They’d survived, and had also expanded. There now existed small walls embracing a town of busy streets and alleys. Small fields were sown in several directions around it.
It seemed implausible that they’d planted and cultivated so many fields so quickly. They must be operating on a different speed of time, although he couldn’t understand how. The sun was the sun, shining down on them for the same number of hours that it illuminated and warmed his world. How tiny their seeds must be.
Then, remarkably, a small puff of smoke drew his eye. Boggling him, he realized, it’s a car. Two ants were in it. Other ants spread out to let it pass.
Another antmobile approached from the other direction. Two cars. The two headed toward each other at a fast ant’s pace.
He saw the accident was going to happen.
He hoped it wouldn’t, and wished there was something on his end he could do.
But the two ant vehicles met head on.
It was a slow speed. No ants seemed harmed. Crowds quickly gathered. The two ant driver emerged from their vehicles. After a few seconds of gentle touching, their antennae and legs began wild flailing. Other ants joined in.
It was amazing how quickly the ants were becoming civilized.
It always happened to him. Something occurred. He saw it but couldn’t think of it for several seconds, and then couldn’t act upon it for several seconds more.
It ruined sports and games, or anything that required participation. “Pay attention,” people yelled. “Why are you so slow?”
He didn’t know and couldn’t answer. And when the lights changed from red to green and he couldn’t press on the gas pedal to go, all the honking behind him did nothing to change anything.
He was weeding when he noticed a little thing, the little thing being a large manifestation of small, black ants. That so many ants were out there, on his gravel path that hooked around the house’s side, amused him. There were but a few weeds here. Other than the weeds, there was the path and some protective, decorative bark used as mulch.
But on a pause to wipe his brow and scratch his nose, he stared down at the next section designated for weeding. The small weeds were not random; they were orderly rows. The ants were not meandering around them, but tending the plants.
His conclusion struck him dumb. He hold onto it and nothing else in his mind for a few seconds before saying, “The ants are cultivating plants.”
This, he thought, was a big thing. He wasn’t very educated but he thought he’d read that settlements becoming agrarian was a major step forward step in human civilization. Breathing the warm air over his find, he thought about what he should do. He wondered if this scene was being repeated around the world. Retrieving his cell phone, he recorded the activity for thirty seconds and marveled about it.
He couldn’t weed there any longer; he became a little sick about what he might have already destroyed. He worried about what might happen to the ants and their farm. A storm was due tonight. Clouds were already gathering. He could imagine what a heavy rain would do to their world.
But it was their world. They’d come this far without him. He would leave them be and let the ants take control of themselves. They seemed to be doing well so far.
Besides, it gave him a good reason to abandon his weeding.
Weeding today reminded me of typos, improper grammar and punctuation and general issues found in manuscripts.
I weed an area and move on. Turning around, I discover…more weeds, where I’d already weeded. The first time was considered, you know, an aberration. Surely the august self had merely overlooked one sector of weeds. But after the second and third times, my suspicions grew. With the fourth time, I concluded, I’m not missing the weeds: they’re growing behind my back.
That had to be the answer.
And while I chortled at my imagination and the secret plotting I now discerned among the weeds — “OMG, he knows,” — I reflected on how much this is like editing. You comb and comb for the mistakes. Satisfied that you found and corrected all the errors, you move on.
But at another time, maybe the same day, maybe a day a week from now or later, you open the doc or pick up the manuscript, and there is another error.
They’re just like weeds. They seem to propagate on their own.
Catdience has two meanings. One, it can mean a gathering of cats to watch something take place. Secondly, catdience can refer to people watching cats.
For example, “Bumble leaped up and seized the door handle with her large front paws. In seconds, a catdience of workers formed. Breath held and eyes fixed on the cat, they watched as she moved her front paws until the door opened. As it did and she jumped down, sauntering out, the catdience members laughed. “That’s a smart cat,” a few said.”
But in the other way, the cats are gathering as spectators. “Hearing me get the luggage out, Meep, Tucker and Quinn came down. Sitting down, they watched me put the piece on the bed, continuing to study the situation as I unzipped the suitcase and opened it. More immediate scrutiny was deemed needed. The catdience jumped up to smell the scene and make it their own.”
I enjoy the Fitbit. It’s amusing how it’s conditioned my thinking. Just like cats train us, the Fitbit has me trained.
I’m more congnizant of moving and the need to move. Whereas I used to attempt to be expedite doing things, I now make the most out of activities to get max movement. For example, I used to think, “Okay, I’m going to the master bedroom. What do I need to take back there?” Then I would load up so as to do only one trip. Now, I take one thing at a time and make multiple trips because I want those steps. This is also less stressful to me.
My average miles per day is up to five point seven three miles. Steps have increased to thirteen thousand, one hundred twenty-seven. Active minutes have increased to a seventy-one per day average.
It’s easy to forget to put the Fitbit back on. It needs to be removed for showers or baths, and recharging. My wife and I have both caught ourselves walking briskly around as we clean, accumulating steps, only to discover we don’t have our Fitbit on. So all that stepping you did, and no points! Damn!
My solution to the recharging side of it is to recharge at the end of the day. If I do forget to put it back on, my sleep won’t be tracked. That’s not a terrible loss.
The Fitbit’s sleep function seems iffy. One day it didn’t record my sleep at all. I reported it to Fitbit. We know we have some issues with it, they replied. We’re working on it.
Another night, my wife got up to check on something with the cats. I was also up at the time. It was about one thirty in the morning. According to the Fitbit, she slept uninterrupted for over seven hours.
The Fitbit can be cheated. That keeps me leery of all its numbers. For example, a rocking chair or playing with the cat with a string will increase your numbers. I’m dubious how much benefit either of those activities are to my overall goal of walking more and being more active.
Overall, after almost four months, I’m satisfied. We are more active. We go on walks together. Needing something for a salad or a green vegetable for dinner, we’ll just walk the mile to the store and back, together, to acquire the steps, miles and activities. We’ll walk to our favorite used book store, The Book Wagon. Its less than a mile away. Typically, we’ll combine them. The grocery is one direction and the book store is in the other, so we’ll end up with a three mile circuit.
Or, like yesterday, we’ll take a brisk walk around town and through the park. And sometimes, like yesterday, we’ll stop in a cafe, pub or coffee shop.
Yesterday, we stopped at Zoey’s for ice cream. I had the bourbon fudge gelato.
It was excellent.
The hardest path to walk, the most difficult challenging in terms of morality, ethics, courage and bravery, or risk, isn’t the path that I’m taking this morning.
Yes, the coffee cup is damn full. I’ve slurped down the mocha from the brim. I’m conscious of its waves and motion as I take steps. “Easy,” I encourage myself. “Stay focused.”
No, it’s not the hardest path. It’s just walking a full cup of coffee across a public room.
Because you know everyone will notice if you spill it.
Well, maybe not.
Okay, probably not.
Still, it’s coffee.
Well, it’s just coffee.
Michael Seidel, writer 