Month: September 2006

A few of you know we share our home with four of the critters.  Plus there are Greebo and Maurice, the two outdoor “not our cats.”  No, they’re not our cats.  We feed them, provide shelter in winter, pet them and are thinking of having them microchipped.  However, please don’t be confused.  They are NOT our cats.  Dan says they aren’t, and I’m a dutiful wife.  So.  There.  (And yes, Dan is the one who suggested microchipping them.  Don’t go there.  Not.our.cats.)

I couldn’t get pics of Greebo and Maurice.  Everytime they’re in a cute pose and I run for the camera, they move.  I also couldn’t get a pic of Euclid, the black indoor cat.  Or rather, yes, I could, but there wasn’t enough light, so all you see is eyes.  I’ll have to try another time.

Meanwhile, here are the others.

This is DT.  She’s going on to 17 years old and she knows her job.  She’s my writer cat.  Well… actually, she’s Dan’s cat and utterly devoted to him.  I’m sure he tells her to watch me during the day.  If I’m not at my desk and at least pretending to write, she dutifully herds me back into place.

This is Miranda.  Four and a half pounds of Cornish Rex, but — really — cat royalty.  Just ask her.  She bosses us horribly.  Dan says her ears pick up transmissions from outer space.  I fear for his life, really.  I think she’s meowed “off with his head” several times.  Fortunately none of the two foot servants understand cat.  She has this thin little meow and loves to sleep under the covers with us in winter.

And this is D’Artagnan, D’Artancat, sausage, little cat, notorious ILB (Inappropriately Licking Boi) AND The Cat Who Came In From The Cold.  He came in on Eric’s birthday, two years ago.  The guys were unloading groceries, it was 4 below and falling, a snow storm was beginning, and this — then — eight week old ball of fluff came in the kitchen door, rubbed on our ankles, purred and proceeded to the food dish.  We never found out where he came from (and yes, we asked.)  As you can see, he stayed.  Yes, he’s adorable.  He loves us to death, licks us and tries to wag his tail at us (don’t go there.)  Look at that face!  Wouldn’t YOU let him walk all over you?

Sarah

I’ve been restless today. Partly because there’s SO MUCH stuff to do around this house. I’m getting up, folding clothes, or cleaning an area, then sitting down again and doing a chapter. That sort of thing.

And while I’m up, I have this thing running through my head…

At the Nebs in Kansas City (can’t remember the date, sorry) Gardner Dozois was holding forth on stuff and he said, WHY is it that it’s always dogs who tell people to kill other people, not cats? I mean, do we so expect if from cats that if they say “Kill all your neighbors, put them in plastic bags” we just assume this is normal cat social conversation and we go “Very cute, fluffy, here’s the kibble.”

He was also puzzled as to why people suddenly feel the need to OBEY their dogs. I mean, why isn’t “Bad Fido, go to your house, no dinner,” an appropriate response? Why, all of a sudden, would one think the dog is the authority on what to do?

This has me thinking of how many times, in Portuguese history, in cases of disputed succession or whatever, legend attributes to an animal or an infant the saying of something like “Yep, he’s the right king.”

Now, I understand why in medieval minds this would clinch the deal. If G-d was taking the trouble of making such critters talk, then he had something important to tell us.

But in the mordern, non-miraculous world, why do people listen? I’m fairly sure Miranda, the hairless wonder, has been telling me to shave all the other cats for years. I have yet to do it.

Besides, Dan won’t let me use his razor…

Sarah

To listen to sample, go here:

http://www.amazon.com/Dear-Heather-Leonard-Cohen/dp/B0002MPTDO/sr=8-1/qid=1157947853/ref=pd_bbs_1/103-3098999-6974227?ie=UTF8&s=music
And yes, the arrangement is bizarre, but the song is still beautiful and —

at least for me — tear-starting.

On That Day
by Leonard Cohen

Some people say
It’s what we deserve
For our sins against G-d
For our crimes in the world
I wouldn’t know
I’m just holding the fort
Since that day
They wounded New York
Some people say
They hate us of old
Our women unveiled
Our slaves and our gold
I wouldn’t know
I’m just holding the fort
But answer me this
I won’t take you to court
Did you go crazy
Or did you report *
On that day
On that day
They wounded New York

* to enlist or present oneself for military duty.

Years ago, at a con, I heard Connie Willis talk about new writers who over-hype themselves. The words she said still haunt me. “In the dark of night, in the solitude of your own heart, you know exactly how good or bad a writer you are.”

If this is true I’m in trouble. I woke up last night, as I often do, in the middle of the night, with the absolute certainty everything I ever wrote and everything I’ll ever write sucks. It’s the sort of unalterable certainty of the heart that the mind can’t argue against. “But, I sold stuff.” “Yeah, they just haven’t noticed it sucks yet.” “But, people pay me.” “For now.” “But people travel to see me at cons.” “Only a few. And obviously they just haven’t read you properly yet.”

Yesterday, to be honest, I came up with a new reason why I suck. “Too many feelings. People don’t want to feel the story that much.” No, in the daylight I do NOT believe this, but…

In the silence of my own heart, in the middle of the night, I should just give up on writing altogether. And yet, I wake up in the morning and I tell myself none of that is true, and I forge on, with more or less ability depending on the day.

So… Is it the realistic accessment of my talents? Heavens, I hope not. I hope it’s just the trailing end of some nightmare, the tiredness of waking mid-night, the doubts every writer experiences.

And what does one do about these crisis of confidence? Nothing. You forge on. You shoulder your doubts. You do what my grandmother called “make your gut into a new heart.” And you go on…

Sarah

So, here I am, hard at work on Musketeers #3 and battling one of those bugs that go around. Not making much progress on book because of bug. Two nights ago in desperation, I gave up and took a cold tablet, which on me acts pretty much like sleep medicine.

When I do this, it’s pretty hard to wake me. However, a police helicopter flying low over the house — how low? Well, it shone its tail lights in my bedroom window — and repeating, pretty much does it.

What it sounded like to me was like the thing was flying erratically. Dan and Robert who hear better tell me no, it was describing circles. Fine. Whatever it was doing, these days being what they are was pretty scary. And loud. And did I mention scary?

I was about to gather the boys up to take to basement in case the heli — on purpose or accidentally — crashed down, when Robert pointed out there was a police car parked two doors down, and another in the other direction also parked.

My guess? It’s yet another fugitive. This happens periodically. Nothing in the papers. Fugitives are just not that big a deal, anymore.

However, this is not the first time nor the last. For the last several weeks there’s been erruptions of sudden helicopters — though not nearly that close to my house. Those of you who AIM with me have heard me go “Helicopters again!”

So… I have a good hypothesis to explain this whole thing. Better — or at least more entartaining — than the fugitive one. You see, helicopters have gone sentient — what, they could. Do you read Clifford Simak? — and there’s a couple nesting nearby. We need to find the nest, tranq them and relocate them to the wilderness. And then we can sleep again.

OTOH, perhaps I just need some sleep.