where the writers are
Cat Voyeur

Okay, I have decided, after much thought, to have a short comeback as a blogger. I don't have time to invent a snazzy online persona; I don't have anything to rant about. I am not sure who Eddie is but I will investigate. What prompted this sudden change of heart is a cat. From my desk, I can see an orange and white cat sitting on a neighboring roof. It is raining. The cat doesn't seem to mind. He/she has been looking intently at me for a while now. It keeps raining. The cat seems very content. I am taking the semester off from teaching to finish a book and it seems very odd. I like teaching a great deal. Being a full time writer feels a bit like a cat sitting on a roof in the rain.

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power of the ordinary

Your words on the rainy day cat and full time writing brought back a memory.  Your dad. London, 1968.  He wanted to be seen as ordinary, not an icon or writing equivalent of a rock star. He talked about his best times--sitting on a couch in California watching television in a t-shirt, eating from a bucket of Kentucky Fried chicken, grease in his beard.  He was sad even then. He had just broken up with someone in the States and while he seemed to want companionship, he felt so heavy.  There was some playfulness though. In a park.  He liked to play squirrel.  

Congratulations on your book.

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Orange and White Cats

My best friends growing up had a pair of cats that looked almost identical. Both were more than a bit overweight, colored white with orange spots. One his family had bought when he was in middle school the other was a stray that his sister mistook for their cat. They ended up keeping both for quite awhile. Eventually the stray ended up urinating in the house, and ripped up furniture and towards the end of his stay, the original cat copied its behavior before the stray left and never came back.