The Word for Writers

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OK. Now if I can just type fast enough to get it all down the way I was dreaming it in my sleep last night. No notes, without the light on what I tried to scribble down looks like a two year old drawing pictures.

“Honey, where is the milk?”

Oh, no, I can’t be interrupted right now to help that man find what is right in front of his nose in the door of the frig, right where it always is “Lower left door of the frig, Mick.”

Let’s see, there were perfect pieces of dialog I thought of. Why can’t I be as creative when I am awake –

“I still don’t see it, are you sure we have fresh milk?”

Sigh, looks like I have to make a trip to the kitchen after all, “Here it is, Mick, lower left side of the door, ah, that’s where we have kept it since we moved up here five years ago.”

“Oh, I guess I was looking in the RIGHT side of the door.”

Man, what is that cat toy doing on the floor? I almost tripped and fell. Might have something to do with having four cats I guess.

Where was I? Oh, yes, that great snippet of dialog from last night. Hum.

“Yeowl, merow”

“I know, you want to know where the milk is too, don’t you? Wonder why daddy couldn’t have fed you guys when he was right there in the kitchen? Come on, let’s go eat and then maybe I can have some silence to think around here.”

I walk to the kitchen followed by 16 paws. Some strutting in a stately manner while being attacked by the half grown kitten who has only one forward speed, ATTACK. He jumps on the elder cats, chews ears, bats tails and now tries to bowl them over. Bobby is met with a couple of good natured swats and one irritated hiss as he attacks blue eyed Stormy. It is as if Stormy is saying “I am almost 14, have arthritis and am too old for this on the way to the buffet table!”

Maybe I should be writing a piece about the cats rather than trying to remember that catchy phrase.

The only way I ever get anything down on paper is by constantly talking to myself, stirring it up, turning on the heat and eventually out comes a piece that I hit “enter” . It is done, what do writers do who have kids at home?

Hum, why was I thinking of writing that story to begin with? Tika, what are you doing in here being SO affectionate and butting my hand off the mouse while you stomp on the keyboarddddddddd? Yep, I think I really write a piece about you cats, much more up close and personal.

(C) Marijo Phelps all rights reserved. Use with proper credits.

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