So I wrote a little parody of talking cat cozies — yes, there is a genre of mystery novels where talking cats help little old ladies solve mysteries. TALKING CATS.
Read the first page. DO IT NOW.
Now, click with your mousity mouse to read page two of A BOWL OF WARM MILK AND MURDER.
So I come to a difficult decision. A fork in the road of writerdom.
Door No 1.: Abandon the Evil Cat and his adventures in midstride, which would be sad.
Door No. 2: Drop everything else and write 300-whatever pages of A BOWL OF WARM MILK AND MURDER.
Door No 3: Let the scientists clone me and do both.
Door No. 4: Do like some famous authors and put my name in BIG LETTERS while the schmuck who “co-wrote” the book has his name in agate type.
Time is precious, as in I don’t have any right now. Later in the year, sure.
And I have things to do.
But it nagged at me. Even in the midst of writing other things at work, or writing things for fun at midnight, Evil Cat scratched at me with his sharp claws and whispered to me.
I told him to go away, that I’m trying to write a Serious Novel, and by serious I mean somewhere in between pretentious literary nancypants nonsense (FREEDOM) and sci-fi trash involving trolls, elves or armored dragons in spaceships. (Sadly, I am not making that up. Those novels exist.)
Evil Cat cut the brake lines of my car.
So: I picked Door No. 5: Write random passages of A BOWL OF WARM MILK OF MURDER with choice photos of evil cats, stolen from the series of tubes.
Page 184 of A BOWL OF WARM MILK AND MURDER
(from a funeral scene, with Evil Cat peering in from a window to the Eastside Methodist Church)
The Woman and the Boy have water on their face for the girl in the wooden box.
They sing songs from the black book. They hug each other.
I have not read the black book, though it seems important. I do know that they sing songs to the Bearded Man, who lives in the sky, and give him pieces of paper. Then when the snow and frozen water comes, the Bearded Man comes down from the sky in his box, pulled by the deer with horns, to give children the toys made by tiny slaves with pointed ears.
Reformed journalist. Scribbler of speeches and whatnot. Wrote a thriller that was a finalist for some award.