Cats Can’t Write

Sometimes I envy my cat. Hell, more than sometimes. Presently he’s sleeping at my side, snoring ever so slightly. Now and again his foot twitches and I imagine he’s creeping through a jungle of dream grass stalking some tantalizingly elusive prey, a bird-mouse perhaps? Or maybe his favorite toy, koala-ball, has become sentient. Either way, it’s a pretty damned awesome dream if you’re a cat.

I wonder what it would be like to sleep like that, like nothing else matters. How would it be to not have my guilt-tripping inner nag constantly whispering, “It’s been six hours! You’ve slept enough! Shouldn’t you be writing? TICK! TICK! TICK! Gotta get those stories out before you DIE!”

But she means well, and she is right. After all, each second, day, hour, I am closer to death, and how horrible it would be to die with an untold story!

I think about this every day on my ten-mile bike commute. Every car that almost swipes me, every bus that veers into my path. I want to shout, “NO! Not yet! I have too many stories to tell!” Which is a lot different than my pre-writing mindset. Settle in, I’ll tell you all about it.

Yes, I’ve always been a “writer” but there was a period (a really fucking dark period) of about ten years in which I didn’t—couldn’t—write anything.

I started smoking in around seventh grade, and I would smoke cigarettes whenever I wrote. When I turned eighteen I decided an asthmatic shouldn’t smoke, and quit. In quitting, I also inadvertently quit writing. I couldn’t do it anymore, not without the ember’s red glow, the waft of swirling grey smoke. It was over. Cue the depression.

So I stumbled through life, sure it all had some purpose, but I couldn’t figure out what. I’d thought it had been writing, but obviously I had been wrong about that. So I decided I would live only as long as my two cats, then, once they died, I too could go. My bike rides then were indifferent. I could die, but meh, it saved me the trouble of having to do it myself.

Good times.

What snapped me out of this funk? Well, oddly enough, all it took was one over-hyped, mind-numbing book. I’m not going to name names, and which book it was isn’t really important. Really, it was more of a cumulative thing and this book just happened to be the last straw. It poked a shining hole into my darkness and forced me to pick up my pen for the first time in ten years. Now my life is measured in stories, not cats.

So, if you’ll excuse me, I have some writing to do.