Sourpuss

These days, I'm more of a dog person, but I do like cats, and from the volume of folklore they've aroused, it seems I'm not the only one.  If a black cat crosses your path, it apparently has an effect -- some say if they travel from your right to your left, it will bring you bad luck; whereas, if they cross from left to right, luck's on your side.  Egyptians thought so much of the creatures that they mummified them, preserving them for the journey beyond.  My grandmother used to say, "A cat's the only animal that can wash its privates in front of you, then view you like you're dirt."  (By the by, she also used to correct my thank you letters in red and shake my hand, rather than hugging.  Snort.)

Is it a wonder that cats inspire story?  In "Puss in Boots", a magical tale of slyness and bravado, a cat impresses the king to save his master from ruin.   And of course, The Cheshire Cat acts far more wised-up than Alice, even though he seems to be speaking nonsense.  In the realm of hearsay, the cat also plays a role.  Big cats the size of panthers have been spotted on the Devon moors, their status in English folklore nearly rivaling that of Nessie.  Cats saving lives is also a frequent theme.  I remember reading in the paper of a cat that dialed emergency services when her mistress collapsed.

As writers, I believe we can learn a lot from cats.  We often lack confidence, especially at the outset, believing the rejections mean we're never going to make it.  Also, those writers who play by the rules may well make it big, but those who wish with vehemence to write what they don't know, will do better to break the cardinal saying than sacrifice their passion.  Would a cat ever announce, "I'm never going to be published"?  Or "I just can't do this"?  Would a cat write a thriller when their longing was for poetry, just because the former seemed more likely to sell?  

I once had a cat who was totally white, with stunning green eyes.  The RSPCA were sure she'd been mistreated, and indeed, she was shaky and refused to be touched.  We'd lose her for days, even though she stayed in, because she loved to hide away.  I'd find her behind the wardrobe elongated and sleeping, or tucked into a box, or deep beneath my covers.  But dear God, for a creature who'd been obviously beaten, she recovered quickly and became a real stalker.  She'd bring us mice by the dozen, would yowl for her food, would leave home for days and return proud and mucky.  

Yeah, we can learn a lot from cats.  Let's brush ourselves down and carry on.

Comments

[Amy]

Too funny, Sue! My cat used to hunker down for hours over chipmunk holes, untroubled by the fact that she had never actually managed to catch a chipmunk coming out of them. It was a magnificent obsession that absorbed her completely, results no object.... (You make me think there's a lesson of sorts there!)

[Sue]

Amy, that's hilarious! It reminds me, in the best sort of way, to stop checking my email and get back to the flippin' writing. Snort!