How I Do Not Write

How I Do Not Write
17 February 2012 
This is one of the things I do when I'm not writing. Download the wildlife camera. This photo is my desktop:
 “I See you! HELLOOO. Are you writing?” 
I’m trying to score 500k on Mahjongg Lite again. I mean catching up on professional writers organization emails, writing blogs, and consumer emailings. Absorbing information. And I’m paying bills. And obsessing about filing the taxes. (I start in January and keep a steady pace until April. Obsess early, obsess often until it’s time to write the checks.) 
And fluffing SamCat’s food. Let me explain. At 20 years going on Zombie, SamCat’s prescription cat food is only good for five minutes at which time the Cat Slave, aka me, must re-form the remaining canned cat food back into the correct mound, and supply fresh kibbles.  
Shortly after SamCat eats, it’s time to clean the litter box. AGAIN. At least he’s  suspended his theory that the couch and carpeting are the litter box. 
After SamCat wobbles out of the litter box, it’s broom and dustpan time for the steady trail of litter he leaves between box and his nest on the couch. Hansel and Gretel couldn’t leave a better trail. Good thing sweeping up the litter does not stop him from finding the box for the next round. 

And power walking. I get the BP up for that one. Not just walking up hills and down, but arguing with the radio talk show. It’s possible the neighbors stay indoors, because they see me talking to no one as something a little less exercise and a little more, well crazy. 
And hair trims. Which sound easy, but like taxes take a fair amount of pre-appointment obsessing. This is a direct result of the world’s worst haircut that kept me behind drawn curtains in the house for a month. Really. So short my highlights appeared as polka dots. 
And supervising. When The Prince Consort retired, he asked me to make a “Honey Do List.” His enthusiasm for this has noticeably waned, but I am still dedicated. And husbands want to be supervised, I promise. 
Shopping. TPC has become the family chef. It may be because he’s always been interested in cooking, but I suspect that like my father who also took over the cooking when he retired, (As a result Dad was able to quit taking daily antacids.) this is in no small part self-preservation. Good female cooks in my family are rare. 
TPC does not cook solo. He requires a sous chef to locate the salt, which was behind the pepper in the pantry closet.( Men do not believe functional pantries are deeper than six inches. And if you have a pantry that is deeper, they sure as hell are not reaching past that first row of peanut butter, spices, and soup. Every male knows there are pantry monsters deep in there.) 
Then there is grocery shopping. B. R. , before retirement, I did grocery shopping, library, and other errands in two hours tops, once a week. Not now. TPC LOVES to slowly stroll every aisle. ( Which admittedly is how I discovered Spotted Dick, and the humor of the stocker who put antacids next to the spicy food.)  I don’t wear a watch, so I don’t know how long it takes, but I do know by the time we get home, and I hide the groceries deep in the depths of the pantry monster’s cave, I need a nap.
Laundry. Well, that’s probably a good thing. I considered trying to see how long we could go before running out of clothes, but I remembered TPC’s college jeans. They STOOD all on their own in the corner of his room. Something to do with only doing laundry when he took it home to his mother at the end of the quarter. 
And there is writing query letters, synopses, and outlines  to send to unsuspecting editors in eternal hope that some editor will read one of my manuscripts and Have to offer me a contract. 
And there’s revising my manuscripts. I have gotten smarter over the years, no matter what any of my family may say. I make my work better, I hope. And since I do believe in the stories, this is a joy. 
I really do write. I’ve started a new one, honest. The opening line is: “Well, this is awkward.” 
“Hellooo. I do not write and then I do.”
Kath who is writing this blog. And enjoying it. 


  1. Thank you, Connie. You gave me the idea for this blog, thank you!

    1. Hah! I LIVE it.(not a typo) Gotta get me one of those cameras.


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