Ace Varkey's Blog: Cat got my tongue, page 6
March 29, 2016
Cat in a Hot Pink Bikini
Years ago, when I stumbled upon a street fair, I was drawn to a painting of a cat, stretched out on a chaise lounge, book in one paw, drink in the other, dressed up in a hot pink bikini. Row upon row of the vibrant pink material covered the nipples and there was just one bottom, fitting snugly around the tail. For some reason I cannot fathom, I did not buy it.
The other day I thought about it with yet another bout of regret. Why had I passed it by? Why?
So I decided to rectify the error and paint the picture myself. I turned to my trusty friend, the Internet, took out a set of paints, making sure I had grey (the color of Kitty O's falling away fur) and hot pink (which, happily, goes very well with grey).
It wasn't easy, but I persevered with the help of a number of good YouTube sites. It was when I was painting the numerous tops that I had my revelation. The tops, I decided, are like the many characters in my novels. They each populate a novel, covering, showing off, whatever their natural traits, and ultimately, they lead the reader to the end, in much the same way that the eye progresses to the bikini bottom. And naturally, there is only one bottom, because there is only one ending.
Until I write a novel that has two endings, I will keep this picture in mind as I turn on my trusty computer to start composing the next Commissioner Oscar D'Costa mystery.
Here's to mimosas and good books, not necessarily in that order.
The other day I thought about it with yet another bout of regret. Why had I passed it by? Why?
So I decided to rectify the error and paint the picture myself. I turned to my trusty friend, the Internet, took out a set of paints, making sure I had grey (the color of Kitty O's falling away fur) and hot pink (which, happily, goes very well with grey).
It wasn't easy, but I persevered with the help of a number of good YouTube sites. It was when I was painting the numerous tops that I had my revelation. The tops, I decided, are like the many characters in my novels. They each populate a novel, covering, showing off, whatever their natural traits, and ultimately, they lead the reader to the end, in much the same way that the eye progresses to the bikini bottom. And naturally, there is only one bottom, because there is only one ending.
Until I write a novel that has two endings, I will keep this picture in mind as I turn on my trusty computer to start composing the next Commissioner Oscar D'Costa mystery.
Here's to mimosas and good books, not necessarily in that order.
March 22, 2016
Spring is in the (h)air and more....
A while back I wrote about Kitty O losing his furs, clumps at a time, now that Spring has sprung. That continues to be true, though in the true tradition of a magical cat, he looks exactly the same. Yesterday I saw him batting about a poor grasshopper. The other day he brought in a cricket that kept springing out from under Kitty O's paws as well as my attempts to rescue it and send it back to the great outdoors where it should live.
I know, of course, that Kitty O is chasing the above creatures because of his instinct. It's exciting for him that all of a sudden the garden is filled with any variety of moving things.
As I watched him turn into a hunter, both green eyes on an unsuspecting bird, swaying just his backside while uttering the strangest of meows before he pounced, I wished I had a plethora of instincts to help me when the various parts of my novel don't move. I can read a scene and know it does not work, but no instinct tells me how to fix it. I have to go over it again and again, hoping that in one of those endless edits I finally manage to make it work.
But -- every now and then, a passage will write itself, as if my head and fingers know exactly which words to choose and in which order. I always think of those moments as magical. But -- could it be a type of instinct? Instinct that allows me to formulate my thoughts in much the same way that when Kitty O sees that bird he stills himself as he readies to catch it? The thing is, he knows what to do every single time. The thing for me is, I never know when I will not have to sweat it out over a keyboard.
Ah, if only I had more instincts. Like a cat.
But then again, if I were to lose my pounds, it would never show.
So what's the answer? To cat or not to cat?
I know, of course, that Kitty O is chasing the above creatures because of his instinct. It's exciting for him that all of a sudden the garden is filled with any variety of moving things.
As I watched him turn into a hunter, both green eyes on an unsuspecting bird, swaying just his backside while uttering the strangest of meows before he pounced, I wished I had a plethora of instincts to help me when the various parts of my novel don't move. I can read a scene and know it does not work, but no instinct tells me how to fix it. I have to go over it again and again, hoping that in one of those endless edits I finally manage to make it work.
But -- every now and then, a passage will write itself, as if my head and fingers know exactly which words to choose and in which order. I always think of those moments as magical. But -- could it be a type of instinct? Instinct that allows me to formulate my thoughts in much the same way that when Kitty O sees that bird he stills himself as he readies to catch it? The thing is, he knows what to do every single time. The thing for me is, I never know when I will not have to sweat it out over a keyboard.
Ah, if only I had more instincts. Like a cat.
But then again, if I were to lose my pounds, it would never show.
So what's the answer? To cat or not to cat?
March 15, 2016
Ins-purr-ation
As those of you who read my blog know, I often look to my cat, Kitty O, for inspiration.
His patience as he sits outside the back door waiting to be let in is something I admire. I am too often impatient to get things done, especially when it comes to writing. A few months ago I was stuck, unable to write, unable to edit, unable to do anything writing related. My agent kept asking me to send her pages, but alas, there was nothing I could attach in an email.
Then I thought of Kitty O waiting for who knows how long, outside the door. He has no idea when it will be opened, but he has absolute surety that someone will come, and he will get to dash inside the house. With that in mind, I told myself of all the other times I had had writer's block (I hate those two words) but that ultimately, I had been able to write again. So I waited. And I waited. But the days added up to a week, then the weeks into a month and it was getting harder and harder for me to maintain Kitty O's optimism.
So one day I went outside and hid and watched him. Kitty O simply sat, in one spot, only occasionally ruffling his furs. He would turn his head at sounds, but other than that, he quietly and calmly waited and sure enough, even though I was outside, someone did open the door and in he went.
I told this to the only other writer I know who shook her head at my folly and said that she watched movies when hit with writer's block.
As for me? I waited.
And waited.
And then, suddenly, without any fanfare, one day I stared at the blank screen of my monitorand my fingers took me back to the village in east India where the story takes place, to the children who go missing, to my Commissioner Oscar D'Costa, who solves the problem.
His patience as he sits outside the back door waiting to be let in is something I admire. I am too often impatient to get things done, especially when it comes to writing. A few months ago I was stuck, unable to write, unable to edit, unable to do anything writing related. My agent kept asking me to send her pages, but alas, there was nothing I could attach in an email.
Then I thought of Kitty O waiting for who knows how long, outside the door. He has no idea when it will be opened, but he has absolute surety that someone will come, and he will get to dash inside the house. With that in mind, I told myself of all the other times I had had writer's block (I hate those two words) but that ultimately, I had been able to write again. So I waited. And I waited. But the days added up to a week, then the weeks into a month and it was getting harder and harder for me to maintain Kitty O's optimism.
So one day I went outside and hid and watched him. Kitty O simply sat, in one spot, only occasionally ruffling his furs. He would turn his head at sounds, but other than that, he quietly and calmly waited and sure enough, even though I was outside, someone did open the door and in he went.
I told this to the only other writer I know who shook her head at my folly and said that she watched movies when hit with writer's block.
As for me? I waited.
And waited.
And then, suddenly, without any fanfare, one day I stared at the blank screen of my monitorand my fingers took me back to the village in east India where the story takes place, to the children who go missing, to my Commissioner Oscar D'Costa, who solves the problem.
March 8, 2016
Of fewer furs and words withheld
Global warming is affecting Kitty O and though it's early for Spring, he is already shedding. His furs are here, there, everywhere. I am constantly picking up small balls of grey -- and yet he looks exactly the same! A pretty neat trick, if you ask me. Well, perhaps I would choose another word over 'neat,' given the extra work I now have.
As I sat looking at Kitty O, marveling that his silhouette remained unchanged, it occurred to me that we were in the same mode. Right now I am editing my second novel in the Commissioner Oscar D'Costa mystery series. I have to shed words, paragraphs, pages -- and yet keep the novel whole, the way Kitty O looks, despite his fewer furs. It's a difficult thing to do, to select passages and then hit the 'delete' key. I am, however, doing it, one word at a time, sometimes three pages at a time.
Soon Kitty O will stop shedding and the novel will be done. And just as I will forget the furs I am now finding, I will also forget the parts I removed.
Then, the novel thinner and moving well (I hope), I will wrestle with the title. Right now I am flirting with "East with the Night," or "Organized Crime," or "The Children of the East." I'm awful with titles and just as I occasionally wish that someone would come and get rid of all those lost furs, I think how nice it would be if someone gave me a title.
As I sat looking at Kitty O, marveling that his silhouette remained unchanged, it occurred to me that we were in the same mode. Right now I am editing my second novel in the Commissioner Oscar D'Costa mystery series. I have to shed words, paragraphs, pages -- and yet keep the novel whole, the way Kitty O looks, despite his fewer furs. It's a difficult thing to do, to select passages and then hit the 'delete' key. I am, however, doing it, one word at a time, sometimes three pages at a time.
Soon Kitty O will stop shedding and the novel will be done. And just as I will forget the furs I am now finding, I will also forget the parts I removed.
Then, the novel thinner and moving well (I hope), I will wrestle with the title. Right now I am flirting with "East with the Night," or "Organized Crime," or "The Children of the East." I'm awful with titles and just as I occasionally wish that someone would come and get rid of all those lost furs, I think how nice it would be if someone gave me a title.
March 1, 2016
The Cat on the Shelf
My cat, Kitty O loves high places. I like to say that's because he likes to have friends in high places. He can be Cat on a Hot Tile Roof, he can be Cat Up a Tree, and he can be The Cat on the Shelf.
The last is my favorite. He paces the carpet, considering his next move, and then, just like that! as if it's the easiest thing to do, he jumps onto a shelf and curls up. It's amazing to see how he manages to snuggle between books, on top of them, or in front of them.
Nothing, in my mind, can better a home than books and a cat. Except, perhaps, a cat on a shelf of books.
For some reason, it always reminds me of Dr. Seuss's The Cat in the Hat. I gain great comfort from Dr. Seuss, for I read somewhere that he had great difficulty publishing his poems, that he was told rhymes would not sell.
I can relate to that. I was told that a mystery set in India, solved by an Indian commissioner, would not sell. I did not listen. I wrote The Girl Who Went Missing am now working on my second Commissioner Oscar D'Costa mystery. I so hope I can prove the naysayers wrong.
Meanwhile, I enjoy seeing Kitty O, not framed by a window pane, but hanging with books. I dream that one day he will be curled up on a book or two or three that I have written. Then it will be Cat on a Shelf of My Books.
The last is my favorite. He paces the carpet, considering his next move, and then, just like that! as if it's the easiest thing to do, he jumps onto a shelf and curls up. It's amazing to see how he manages to snuggle between books, on top of them, or in front of them.
Nothing, in my mind, can better a home than books and a cat. Except, perhaps, a cat on a shelf of books.
For some reason, it always reminds me of Dr. Seuss's The Cat in the Hat. I gain great comfort from Dr. Seuss, for I read somewhere that he had great difficulty publishing his poems, that he was told rhymes would not sell.
I can relate to that. I was told that a mystery set in India, solved by an Indian commissioner, would not sell. I did not listen. I wrote The Girl Who Went Missing am now working on my second Commissioner Oscar D'Costa mystery. I so hope I can prove the naysayers wrong.
Meanwhile, I enjoy seeing Kitty O, not framed by a window pane, but hanging with books. I dream that one day he will be curled up on a book or two or three that I have written. Then it will be Cat on a Shelf of My Books.
February 23, 2016
The owl and the pussycat et moi
If I had to choose two creatures to take in a boat, I would, of course, take a pussycat -- and an owl. The pussycat is no surprise because I have always loved cats. I love the way they epitomize patience as they wait to pounce (or not) on a bird (if only I did that when I'm stuck on a scene instead of rushing it); the way they obsessively clean themselves (if only I could edit my work that way); the way they sleep so soundly (if only I could sleep off those long days and weeks when inspiration is nowhere to be found). In other words, I learn a lot from my cat Kitty O about writing.
The owl, now that is an entirely different matter. I have never had an owl as a pet; indeed I have only seen an owl once, at night, in a forest, as it flew past me. It was a beautiful sight, from the eyes that stared, owlishly, at me, to the unfurling of feathers and then the arc of the flight. Owls are talismanic for me, while cats are...just purr-fection. Talismanic because of the dual way they are viewed in the world. The Greeks considered owls to be the symbol of wisdom, the bird of Athena, who gave her name to the capital, Athens. In India, on the other side of the globe, an owl is the exact opposite, the sign of stupidity. How often, when I was growing up, I would hear someone say, "You are being as stupid as an owl." I now have a number of owls on my desk to remind me that depending on how I view a thing, it can be one meaning or another.
And so today I shall try and get back to writing, after being away for some weeks, when, instead of soundly sleeping, I worried and worried that I would never write again. How very stupid of me. Perhaps, if I confess to that stupidity, I will glean some intelligence and put that into words as I flesh out my story.
The owl, now that is an entirely different matter. I have never had an owl as a pet; indeed I have only seen an owl once, at night, in a forest, as it flew past me. It was a beautiful sight, from the eyes that stared, owlishly, at me, to the unfurling of feathers and then the arc of the flight. Owls are talismanic for me, while cats are...just purr-fection. Talismanic because of the dual way they are viewed in the world. The Greeks considered owls to be the symbol of wisdom, the bird of Athena, who gave her name to the capital, Athens. In India, on the other side of the globe, an owl is the exact opposite, the sign of stupidity. How often, when I was growing up, I would hear someone say, "You are being as stupid as an owl." I now have a number of owls on my desk to remind me that depending on how I view a thing, it can be one meaning or another.
And so today I shall try and get back to writing, after being away for some weeks, when, instead of soundly sleeping, I worried and worried that I would never write again. How very stupid of me. Perhaps, if I confess to that stupidity, I will glean some intelligence and put that into words as I flesh out my story.
February 16, 2016
Ogden Nash, noshing, writing and purring
Kitty O will not eat unless I pet him. He's a weird pet that way.
I, on the other hand, often like to read while I am eating. The other day I opened up the big fat book of poetry I have had for ages, not just to read new poems, but to find old ones, friends, almost.
I always laugh with Ogden Nash.
"The cow is of the bovine ilk; one end is moo, the other milk."
It's short and funny. And apt.
For some reason I thought of Kitty O and came up with:
"The cat is of the feline genus; both ends stink, the mouth and anus."
I doubt Kitty O would be amused. After all, he can't wield the tiny toothbrush the vet suggested I brush his teeth with (no success there) and he always covers after he digs a hole.
Would Kitty O get angry if he knows I write about him? I know what he thinks of my writing in general. He does not object, unless he wants my attention. Then he jumps up, insists on settling down in my lap and, just to make sure I don't send him off, purrs. He's a miser about purrs. He only purrs when he wants something.
And I? I'm a pushover, or should I say, a purrover when it comes to Kitty O. I always take a break from writing, remove my fingers from the keyboard and pet him.
"My cat's a large grey ball of fur; both ends stink, though one does purr.
Sounds about right. It is only when he is purr-fectly happy that I try and sneak back to writing. It usually fails, given the click of the keyboard, but....
I, on the other hand, often like to read while I am eating. The other day I opened up the big fat book of poetry I have had for ages, not just to read new poems, but to find old ones, friends, almost.
I always laugh with Ogden Nash.
"The cow is of the bovine ilk; one end is moo, the other milk."
It's short and funny. And apt.
For some reason I thought of Kitty O and came up with:
"The cat is of the feline genus; both ends stink, the mouth and anus."
I doubt Kitty O would be amused. After all, he can't wield the tiny toothbrush the vet suggested I brush his teeth with (no success there) and he always covers after he digs a hole.
Would Kitty O get angry if he knows I write about him? I know what he thinks of my writing in general. He does not object, unless he wants my attention. Then he jumps up, insists on settling down in my lap and, just to make sure I don't send him off, purrs. He's a miser about purrs. He only purrs when he wants something.
And I? I'm a pushover, or should I say, a purrover when it comes to Kitty O. I always take a break from writing, remove my fingers from the keyboard and pet him.
"My cat's a large grey ball of fur; both ends stink, though one does purr.
Sounds about right. It is only when he is purr-fectly happy that I try and sneak back to writing. It usually fails, given the click of the keyboard, but....
February 9, 2016
Gung Hay Fat Choi
It's the Year of the Monkey and, as usual, Kitty O woke me at 5 am. He either had an urgent date with a hole in the ground or he was off to meet the possum that lives in the oak tree just beyond my bedroom window. I let him out and as I got back into bed, I told myself that I had to remember to make noodles for dinner. They symbolize long life and if I used a recipe that called for a bit of orange juice, then that would provide wealth and good luck as well. Three in the making of one dish, voila!
Then I considered Kitty O who might, actually, be hunting. They say the early bird catches the worm and if Kitty O caught the early bird, he would be ahead of the game, in terms of long life, at least, having eaten of the bird that ate of the worm.
The day proved to be the same as any other, chores, snores from Kitty O, and the attempt on my part to write, though nothing came. I stared at the computer, willing words to appear at the ends of my fingertips.
Should I take a page out of Kitty O's book of life and get up early every day? Should I make that my resolution for this New Year of the Monkey? I'll try it and see if, as he frolics outside, I can delve into the story I am trying to bring life to.
Then I considered Kitty O who might, actually, be hunting. They say the early bird catches the worm and if Kitty O caught the early bird, he would be ahead of the game, in terms of long life, at least, having eaten of the bird that ate of the worm.
The day proved to be the same as any other, chores, snores from Kitty O, and the attempt on my part to write, though nothing came. I stared at the computer, willing words to appear at the ends of my fingertips.
Should I take a page out of Kitty O's book of life and get up early every day? Should I make that my resolution for this New Year of the Monkey? I'll try it and see if, as he frolics outside, I can delve into the story I am trying to bring life to.
February 3, 2016
The cat that went plump in the night
That would be my cat, Kitty O, eating. Crunch, crunch, munch. He's getting fatter by the night, and does not have the word DIET in his Meow vocabulary. Nope. He doesn't care that the camera adds weight on his already wide girth and snoozes, or holds his pose, while we click away.
He likes to eat and sometimes, often, that means he is up at night.
Like I am, when an idea strikes me and I turn on the lights and wait for my eyes to adjust to the sudden brightness as I refresh my computer screen. I have learned, over the years, that I WILL NOT remember a great idea in the morning, no matter how many times I recite it as I lay in bed, trying to get back to sleep. Nope. I have to get up and go click, click, type.
Kitty O and I are not really nocturnal creatures. Oh, I know that cats are supposed to be that way, but they also sleep an awful lot and that sleep often occurs at night. I have read about writers working into the wee hours of the morning but I am usually asleep at that time. I'm not crazy about coming up with words/character traits/scenes when I am supposed to be sleeping, but I go with the flow.
Sort of like Kitty O, who goes to his bowl when his stomach calls.
We are a pair, the two of us. Crunch. Click. Crunch. Click. Munch. Type.
He likes to eat and sometimes, often, that means he is up at night.
Like I am, when an idea strikes me and I turn on the lights and wait for my eyes to adjust to the sudden brightness as I refresh my computer screen. I have learned, over the years, that I WILL NOT remember a great idea in the morning, no matter how many times I recite it as I lay in bed, trying to get back to sleep. Nope. I have to get up and go click, click, type.
Kitty O and I are not really nocturnal creatures. Oh, I know that cats are supposed to be that way, but they also sleep an awful lot and that sleep often occurs at night. I have read about writers working into the wee hours of the morning but I am usually asleep at that time. I'm not crazy about coming up with words/character traits/scenes when I am supposed to be sleeping, but I go with the flow.
Sort of like Kitty O, who goes to his bowl when his stomach calls.
We are a pair, the two of us. Crunch. Click. Crunch. Click. Munch. Type.
January 26, 2016
Bibliophiles and ailurophiles
I've always thought that every artist, no matter the medium, had/has a cat. Don't ask me why. It's just how i think.
So naturally, I have a cat. Or rather, my cat has me.....doing all sorts of things for him. Opening doors, petting him so he can eat, putting on his flea medicine so he can be the playboy of the western world, brushing his loose fur, that lucifer....
So why don't I write a book about cats? For some reason I have never, ever, thought to do that. Oh, I'd love to have a cat in the title, a cat on the page, but an entire book devoted to felines? No.
I'll stick with mysteries.
Which means that though my book isn't about cats, it still is in the vicinity, because, let's face it, cats are mysterious creatures. We all know that.
Have you ever tried to figure out a cat?
It's easier to figure out a mystery and then write it, making sure there is a cat lurking somewhere on some page.
So naturally, I have a cat. Or rather, my cat has me.....doing all sorts of things for him. Opening doors, petting him so he can eat, putting on his flea medicine so he can be the playboy of the western world, brushing his loose fur, that lucifer....
So why don't I write a book about cats? For some reason I have never, ever, thought to do that. Oh, I'd love to have a cat in the title, a cat on the page, but an entire book devoted to felines? No.
I'll stick with mysteries.
Which means that though my book isn't about cats, it still is in the vicinity, because, let's face it, cats are mysterious creatures. We all know that.
Have you ever tried to figure out a cat?
It's easier to figure out a mystery and then write it, making sure there is a cat lurking somewhere on some page.
