Cuddles, Coos, and other Writerly Distractions

'Do you love sitting with mommy? Do you? Tiki leans into me purring on all cylinders. 

As quick as that, I was reminded of those television commercials of the cat owners cooing to their pets. In one case the conference phone line is still open, and in another a woman is on the floor with her pussy cat while a little girl stands in the open doorway waiting for payment of the cookies she’s selling.

17 yr old Tiki with her summer lion cut

Tiki, her summer cut outgrown and her fur long and silky again, kept meowing at the side of my chair. Her paws tapping my leg. Yes, I forgot to close that heavy oak door which allows me peace and quiet to work. Finally, I reached down and lifted her onto my lap. Hence the conversation I felt obliged to share with you.

A little purring and a short cuddle wouldn’t hurt anyone but it did manage to distract me. First it was the thought of those hilarious TV commercials−what were they selling anyway, cat food? Not sure.

But this coo and cuddle distracted me from my current project, the re-working of a memoir. An undertaking that has been going surprisingly well. (Think about it, here I am blogging instead of, you know, working.)

17 yr old Tiki

 I’m trying to play catchup with my work. I took a few days off for Thanksgiving (Canadian, eh) and the fall fair. There were a couple of appointments, and then a shopping and movie fix with my bestie, (awesome boots and jeans, and oh, the purse−love the purse, and I really enjoyed seeing Rush) and finally I’m back at the desk.

Tiki’s left the office now. That’s the way it is with cats. They come, they disturb, and they leave. Sometimes she wakes me in the morning, jumping on the bed, walking across my sleeping body, and crying–which is how I describe her meows−until I’m fully awake. When I get up, she curls into my spot to sleep. At times when I’m on the phone, people mistakenly think her mewings are a baby crying.

She’s back now, again tapping and screeching until I snuggle her in my lap.  She has food and water. I know that for certain.  I cleaned her litter box last night. So what’s her problem? It’s okay, I can type with her on my lap. I’m doing it now, but she never stays put. Pets are so much like children.

I have to chase my dog around the house to get her outside but the minute I’m on the phone, she goes to the door and whines. So what’s with that? When my pets were younger they’d wait until I got on the phone to chase each other. Around my ankles! Until I’d excuse myself from the phone and put the run to both of them. I love them dearly which is why they’re allowed to continue interrupting my work, demanding my attention, and …hey, I guess it’s not so different than having kids around.

I’d better get back to work. Only two more days and it’s Nana day!! J

 

Giving Thanks for the Little Things

I am Thankful...............................

 

I am thankful for a child’s embrace

A baby’s hand curled around my finger

And the tickle of Tiki’s fur against my cheek

The smell of freshly squeezed lemons

Clean sheets and fresh towels

And the fragrance of my granddaughters’ hair

The smell of a campfire

Lake air after a rain

Cedar cuttings and new mown grass

The aroma of perked coffee

Stew simmering in a pot

And the familiar smell of my dog

The sound of crickets and tree frogs

A little girl’s giggle

A train whistle at dusk

Rain spatters against the window

Rumbling thunder

And his whisper in the night

I am thankful..............................

The Accident by Linwood Barclay

Linwood Barclay’s The Accident is a flashlight- under- the- covers kind of a novel. No way are you going to put this book down until you’ve read every page.

I’m not going to tell you what happens to the book’s main character Glen Garber that sends his life into a tailspin. You can check that out on the cover. (Hint – it was an accident)

Loved the prologue. Some publishers say that prologues have no place in books anymore. I say they do. They should be right at the front. Barclay’s prologue is ingenious. You read far enough into the story that you forget all about the prologue and then it becomes one of those a-ha moments. Gotta love that. The prologue was a great way to jump into the action immediately to grab the reader’s attention. Then the first chapter moves forward at a slower pace – but not for long. Before you finish that cup of tea, you’ll be chasing after Garber as he races towards the truth.

It occurred to me that the author sacrificed several good books by using up their story lines in this one. Lots of characters and subplots that could have held their own.

There were so many twists and turns that it felt like a rollercoaster ride. Believe me, I devour a lot of suspense and I can usually read between the lines, see something coming, and find stuff that doesn’t fit or make sense. While I was reading The Accident, that didn’t happen. Heck, I couldn’t even find a typo.

A few different times, I thought I’d figured everything out and then actually chuckled aloud at being left hanging in midair – knowing I’d been duped. Nothing predictable about this plot. What a rush! An absolute masterpiece for all you whodunit fans. Barclay manages to interweave all the connections until they seamlessly mesh. 

Another admirable trait is the development of the characters – characters are so important to me – and the realistic dialogue. Man, he really nailed the dialogue. Nothing turns me off faster than reading something that you know is not a natural fit. I admit to being a character and dialogue nitpicker.

Barclay is a master plotsman. Is that a word? It is now. He makes it look easy. It isn’t. Just when you think the story is over – you lurch over another bump and turn the corner. Just when you think you’ve figured out whodunit – you haven’t.

Even those last few pages had me thinking Could she? Will he? The entire book was an adrenalin rush for me. If you like thrillers as much as I do, it’ll be a winner for you too.

Tell you what, do not start reading this book until you put the cat outside, feed the dog, and turn off your cell.

The Accident by Linwood Barclay. Don’t take my word for it. Get it. Read it. Now.

New Season-New Writing Space

Writers talk a lot about their writing space. How important is it? I’ve trailed through the house writing in every room but one. This summer I spent most of my time parked in front of the window in the living room, my computer balanced on my lap. I loved the view.

It’s time for a change-up and I’m thinking of going back to the storage room. That’s right. A couple of years ago, I complained about the interruptions and distractions of working in the main floor office and my husband suggested using the desk in the large storage area in the basement. There were no windows and there was a heavy oak door to shut out all household distractions. He was right. It was a great place to work. For a time. I’m the kind of person who likes a change of scene now and then. It gives me a boost when I re-decorate, re-arrange furniture, or introduce new pieces.

Now, with the change of season and a new writing project just around the corner, I decided to move back to my writing space in the storage room.  Yesterday I checked out the situation. Oh my. All summer I’d been tossing things onto the desk. Filing, sewing, magazines, books, dolls without heads. Well everything that needed attention but could wait until I had the time to deal with it.

With a huge sigh and the urge to run, I tackled the job.  One third of the room is available to me. The rest is stacked with Christmas decorations, not-ready-to-throw-out-yet items, and baby paraphernalia−that I would be more than happy to pass along to a new grandma, a trunk filled with off-season clothes, and, and, and.

Okay, so I looked at my third of the room. Unfortunately, the first thing I had to do was clean off the top of the desk. I hate that job but an idea started to take hold and I began working with a little more enthusiasm.

 There was a long Christmas tree box that had to remain in my ‘space’. I covered it with a narrow patchwork quilt and added a couple of decorative pillows. Looks like a bench seat (don’t sit on it).

It was hard work moving a seven foot desk away from the wall to the centre of my space. It was even harder unrolling an area rug under the heavy desk. Then I came across the matching runner. That was easy.  

 

I commandeered an old oak coffee table, already in the storage room, and placed it along the wall behind the desk as a catch all. Hauling a wing chair from the family room to use in the corner of my ‘new’ office wasn’t too difficult. Oh, and I found a little end table and then plucked a small table lamp from another room. Yep, things shaped up and, overall, I’m pleased with the results.

 

Except for the printer and my laptop, the desk is completely clear –for now. Oh, there is a small vase with some colourful silk pansies, and a couple of rocks. I like rocks. And my good luck charm−an old girl who is supposed to be my guardian angel.

 

I’ve set a date to begin my new project−October 7^th. On that day−and not before−I will settle into my re-furbished space and begin a new season of writing.

Writing, Editing, and other Fun

After Sadie left I wanted to take a nap but knew there wasn’t time. But then I fell asleep in the bathtub so managed a few minutes. (chuckling here) I actually thought it was the cat waking me and then realized it was my own soft purring breaths.

It wasn’t my three year old granddaughter who wore me out. She had a tummy ache so we stayed home and cleaned out bedroom dressers which, when we got to the accessories, interested Sadie greatly. Scarves, belts, and costume jewellery. Oh, and purses. Those little clutches with sequins, or beading, or just shiny little bags with long skinny straps. Yes, she loved those the best. Look Nana, they fit me. I laughed. The little purse practically touched the floor. The jewellery was the best. Chunks of plastic that she used words like amazing, lovely, and corgeous to describe. That’s right, corgeous.

No, if I had to account for my fatigue it would not be my fun day with Sadie, it would have to be mental depletion from my writing activities the night before. A short thriller/suspense/crime/goosebump kind of story. Actually, it’s not the writing that tires me, it’s the editing. (a collective groan here).  It doesn’t necessarily mean I hate editing. I like it. Really, I do. I like it even better when I’m finished.

Here’s how it works. I write the story. It might take hours, days, or weeks. When the story looks good−meaning I love it just the way it is−I SAVE it. Next, I save it to a new file and go crazy. I rip it apart. Take the middle paragraph and use it to open the story. My finger hovers over the delete button as I dawdle over my favourite sentence. The one I felt smug about when I tapped it out on the keyboard.  But what the heck, my ready-to-go story is safe and sound in another file. I ramrod over the words, killing my darlings, and changing anything that sounds like writing.

My favourite authors are those who keep me on the edge of my seat and make me feel as if they are sitting across from me telling me this unbelievably wild story and I believe it. I believe every word they say. I mean that’s why it’s so unbelievable, right? No, it doesn’t sound like writing. It should never sound like writing. Not the crime and suspense anyway.

Think about it. Stephen King is the best when it comes to painting a colour by colour picture of his characters. You don’t even realize he’s doing it and then they’re right before your eyes. From a furled ear and slumped shoulders to pidgeon toes. Yeah, that’s what I’m talking about.

In the end, I liked the new revision of my story the best. Decided to go with it. That’s what tired me out. Feeling my heart race when I got it right, and relief that it was finished. I’d given birth to another story.

It wasn’t until the next day, after my time with Sadie, that it hit me. That’s when it would have been good to curl up in my pyjamas and watch some mindless TV−fall asleep. That was out. I’d committed myself to attending an authors’ reading. I always follow through on a commitment. I like to think I do anyway. Besides, listening to authors who have made the journey can be very inspiring.

All writers talk about...The Journey. I never really got it until this past year.

 

This is a picture that my friend, Debbie Okun Hill, snapped from the hotel window as I headed out to my own reading.  

 

It feels like I’m moving in the right direction.

Cheers!