I don't like cats. I'm a dog person.
In true literary fashion, I live with two. My wife says they are red mackerels. They have cute names.
They both prefer me to any other human in the universe.
I did say I don't like cats, right?
Every writer needs a cat or two. I'm cruising along immersed in prose and discover cat on lap, cat on foot.
How does this happen? No idea.
Tonight I had to wash my new tent because during my week of testing it in the meadow, a feral cat sprayed the thing. I cleaned it with the wrong products and had to re-condition it tonight.
Washing a three-man tent is a little like washing a cat: neither of them like it and you don't do as good a job at the end as your thought you were going to do when you started.
I've had a cat get covered in engine grease and so I've a little experience with "wildlife recovery" cat washing in a de-greasing soap.
Want to see my scars?
At least the tent didn't fight back. It's drying outside my library right now. Looks fine.
SO, recreational product restoration complete, I turn to WIP.
After your obligatory chores, you too should close the iPAD and work on your own prose.
There's a story in there. It needs to be let out.
It'll scratch at the door and yowl until you do.
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