Phew! What a week! I can’t believe that I haven’t blogged since last Wednesday. I have obviously had my reasons, but unfortunately most of them would bore you rigid so I won’t bother explaining them.
The second draft of The Sleeping Field is going far worse than expected and two nights ago I sat up until 1.30 am attempting to get a short passage of no more than 200 words right. I couldn’t. So last night I gave it until midnight and achieved the same thing – nothing. Not to be beaten, I have been at it since getting back from the physio and I have, finally, sorted it – I think.
The other day a writer friend posted a question on our Facebook writers’ site, Black On White (check it out) https://www.facebook.com/groups/566769810009304/ asking, ‘what is the biggest lesson that you have learnt that you could pass on to aspiring writers?’ At the time I said something like, ‘be aware that not ALL advice is GOOD advice,’ and I do believe that, because I have had some truly crap advice dished out to me in my time.
Aside from that I’d have to say, ‘roll with the punches,’ because like bad advice, there are endless punches waiting to hit home. Two nights and half a morning to fix 200 words is a pretty big punch but I have taken my own advice and rolled with it.
I don’t think writing is much different to life, is it? Aren’t we all rolling with life’s punches? Flipping ‘eck, I think my brain is still in serious mode and hasn’t escaped from the novel yet! That’ll never do so I’m out of there now…
Little Chea has had her first boosters. Whoooo! She was not impressed. You should never make the mistake of thinking that pussies are stupid. Chea remembers the cat carrier and the place to which she is carried to when forced to go into it. And I mean forced. I let Richard ‘load her up’ on Monday because frankly, I’m sick of playing good-cop, bad-cop, with me being…yes you guessed it…bad cop. I’m the one who has to ping the worm tablet down her throat. I’m the one who has to drip the wormer solution between her shoulder blades. I’m the one who cuts her front nails and dew-claws down to the quick.
Richard, on the other hand, is the one who gives her treats (behind my back – or so he thinks) when she has turned-up her nose at her dish of very expensive cat food. He’s the one who plays her favourite rough stroking games each time she retrieves her smelly little felt bird for him. He’s the one who throws another log on the wood burner for her when she sleeps with her paw over her nose, indicative that she’s a wee bit chilly.
Get it? Good cop – Richard. Bad cop – me.
So I decided that Richard could load up the beast into her cat-carrier prison. I almost weakened after his fourth attempt. The one where Chea reversed backwards and pissed off up the stairs, but no, I stood my ground, listening to Richard sweetly asking her to come out from under the bed. He brought her down and said, ‘do you want to put her in it?’
I merely said, ‘no, you do it. What’s going to happen when you have finally driven me mad and I’m carted off to the funny farm, who’ll do it then?’
‘Wouldn’t you take her with you?’ he said.
Richard did have a slight bad-cop moment when we were called through to the consulting room and enquired if he should, tip Chea out of the basket, because she wouldn’t come out. I think I made both him and the vet wet their pants when I screeched, ‘NO YOU SHOULDN’T TIP HER OUT – GOOD GOD!’
She’s actually very sweet when she’s on the table and she tucks her little head right under my armpit and hides her face. I love that because I know that I am the one she trusts – her sanctuary. She didn’t object to the jab and had no problem whatsoever in going back into the carrier. No freaking off this time. No four paws rammed against the outside of the door, back arched and full of indignation. Even indignant little pussies have to roll with the punches sometimes.
Take care my lovelies x