Ace Varkey's Blog: Cat got my tongue, page 7
January 12, 2016
Awed by my decidedy odd cat
I've always liked odd things. I preferred green mangoes to chocolate when I was young, I was enamored of mongooses because they kill snakes.....you get it. What balanced out that oddness is that I always loved cats. Since forever.
Oddly enough, I thought that while cats have different personalities, they all share some traits. Traits that can actually stand for the word cat.
Like never wanting to be bothered while eating.
Well, Kitty O has made me reconsider. He sits around and meows until one of us pets him and only then will he deign to eat. It was amazing in the beginning, it was cute for a while, but now it oscillates between being annoying and odd.
Whoever heard of such a thing?
I asked a few vets and they thought I was making it up.
I'm not.
I make up stories and turn them into novels. Like the one I just finished, the second in the Commissioner Oscar D'Costa mystery series. This one is set in a small seaside town and unravels the case of missing children.
Can anyone unravel why it is that my cat will follow me around until I finally bend down and pet him? Then, instead of purring, I hear the crunch of him eating. Crunch, crunch, munch. Crunch, crunch, purr.....
Oddly enough, I thought that while cats have different personalities, they all share some traits. Traits that can actually stand for the word cat.
Like never wanting to be bothered while eating.
Well, Kitty O has made me reconsider. He sits around and meows until one of us pets him and only then will he deign to eat. It was amazing in the beginning, it was cute for a while, but now it oscillates between being annoying and odd.
Whoever heard of such a thing?
I asked a few vets and they thought I was making it up.
I'm not.
I make up stories and turn them into novels. Like the one I just finished, the second in the Commissioner Oscar D'Costa mystery series. This one is set in a small seaside town and unravels the case of missing children.
Can anyone unravel why it is that my cat will follow me around until I finally bend down and pet him? Then, instead of purring, I hear the crunch of him eating. Crunch, crunch, munch. Crunch, crunch, purr.....
July 24, 2015
Why is a cat like a writer?
Every now and then I think that Kitty O not only looks like me, but that we are very alike. Never mind that Kitty O hardly ever looks at me and if he were to do so, would wonder why I don't have whiskers and a tail.
Here's my tale as to why we are somewhat alike:
We are both loners who sit on a wall, watching the world pass by. I write about the machinations, both real and imaginary after I open my computer to a blank page; Kitty O opens and closes his eyes.
We both walk to our own beat. A writer, after all, is, by nature, sui generis.
We are alone for long periods of time during which Kitty O sleeps and I write.
We both want to give happiness to others. I know I would like people to read my novels and feel they have learned something, feel that they have been taken away from their daily lives for a few hours.
I'm convinced that sour puss Kitty O also wants to give people happiness. Otherwise why purr?
Purr, one of my favorite 4 letter words.
Right up there with DONE,when a novel is finished.
Here's my tale as to why we are somewhat alike:
We are both loners who sit on a wall, watching the world pass by. I write about the machinations, both real and imaginary after I open my computer to a blank page; Kitty O opens and closes his eyes.
We both walk to our own beat. A writer, after all, is, by nature, sui generis.
We are alone for long periods of time during which Kitty O sleeps and I write.
We both want to give happiness to others. I know I would like people to read my novels and feel they have learned something, feel that they have been taken away from their daily lives for a few hours.
I'm convinced that sour puss Kitty O also wants to give people happiness. Otherwise why purr?
Purr, one of my favorite 4 letter words.
Right up there with DONE,when a novel is finished.
July 16, 2015
Why is a cat like a book? Take 3
When people ask me what kind of cat Kitty O is, I like to say, "Very well loved." A few smile, a few say, "Of course," but for the most part, people continue with, "We meant what breed is he?"
I give my standard answer, "A mixture, a mutt, a grey splendor."
While that satisfies a few, others persist, "American short hair? Russian blue? Siamese?"
That need to define reminds me of books. When I tell people I just published a mystery, they ask, "A cozy mystery?" "A gritty mystery?" "Suspense?"
Whatever happened to plain old mutt cat and simple whodunit mystery?
I recall reading how J.K Rowling's agent had trouble placing her first Harry Potter novel. Was it children's? Young Adult? At the time, the notion of a great crossover was unthinkable.
I will never know Kitty O's ancestors and frankly, I don't care.
As for my novel, it's a mystery, plain and simple. Well, hopefully not too simple. I don't want people to guess whodunit on page 1. That would defeat the purpose of writing it.
I give my standard answer, "A mixture, a mutt, a grey splendor."
While that satisfies a few, others persist, "American short hair? Russian blue? Siamese?"
That need to define reminds me of books. When I tell people I just published a mystery, they ask, "A cozy mystery?" "A gritty mystery?" "Suspense?"
Whatever happened to plain old mutt cat and simple whodunit mystery?
I recall reading how J.K Rowling's agent had trouble placing her first Harry Potter novel. Was it children's? Young Adult? At the time, the notion of a great crossover was unthinkable.
I will never know Kitty O's ancestors and frankly, I don't care.
As for my novel, it's a mystery, plain and simple. Well, hopefully not too simple. I don't want people to guess whodunit on page 1. That would defeat the purpose of writing it.
July 9, 2015
Why is a cat like a book? Take 2
Kitty O elected to spend last night in the great outdoors beyond the back door. So when I woke up with morning, I did what any good parent would do, I called him.
Kitty, Kitty O, Baby....
No response.
So then I did what a writer ought to do: I went to my computer and turned it on to start writing.
Nothing.
Just the blank screen.
Lots of letters on the keyboard, none forming at the tips of my fingers.
Fingers quiet.
No wonder a book is like a cat! Neither respond....unless they wish to do so.
Kitty O sauntered in a few hours later -- apparently he was ready to come home -- plopped himself on a chair and proceeded to snore.
I guess my fingers will fly across the keyboard when they are ready to do so. No amount of staring at the screen, no cups of tea, no telling myself to seize the moment because I have the time to write and who knows what tomorrow will bring -- none of the above have led to a single sentence.
Then again, earlier in the morning, when the sun was still bashful in the sky, I called Kitty, I shook the bag containing his dry food....nothing worked.
All in its time, both the cat and the book.
Kitty, Kitty O, Baby....
No response.
So then I did what a writer ought to do: I went to my computer and turned it on to start writing.
Nothing.
Just the blank screen.
Lots of letters on the keyboard, none forming at the tips of my fingers.
Fingers quiet.
No wonder a book is like a cat! Neither respond....unless they wish to do so.
Kitty O sauntered in a few hours later -- apparently he was ready to come home -- plopped himself on a chair and proceeded to snore.
I guess my fingers will fly across the keyboard when they are ready to do so. No amount of staring at the screen, no cups of tea, no telling myself to seize the moment because I have the time to write and who knows what tomorrow will bring -- none of the above have led to a single sentence.
Then again, earlier in the morning, when the sun was still bashful in the sky, I called Kitty, I shook the bag containing his dry food....nothing worked.
All in its time, both the cat and the book.
July 2, 2015
Cat in a spool of sun
I was watching Kitty O this morning as he performed his morning ablutions. It's amazing how he picks the one spot on the carpet that is bright with sun, the same spot that is in the middle of the room, so everyone has to go around him. He really does think he is the king of cats so perhaps I really should change his name to Tybalt.
I have remarked about his ballet-like movements in an earlier post and those are still there, the leg extended so he almost looks slim :-). This time as I watched, I saw him lick his paw and rub his cheek. Lick his paw and rub his cheek, going back and forth, the same small area, until he was sure he was clean.
Ah, to be a cat when I am editing. Kitty O did it with such finesse, such patience, and for what? Do I really care if every fur on his body is clean? I love him no matter what. Yet when I edit, I often rush to move on, to get to the next page. If there is a beauty in the cleanliness of one fur, then surely there is a beauty in choosing the right word.
But after some time, what did I do? I circled around him, to get to my chores. To delay the editing process.
But perhaps because I write this blog, I am processing what I witnessed this morning and come the time when I am editing the second Commissioner Oscar D'Costa mystery, I will recall that marvelous sequence of paw to cheek and use it, fingers to words.
My readers, I hope will appreciate the time and energy...and intelligence. :-)
I have remarked about his ballet-like movements in an earlier post and those are still there, the leg extended so he almost looks slim :-). This time as I watched, I saw him lick his paw and rub his cheek. Lick his paw and rub his cheek, going back and forth, the same small area, until he was sure he was clean.
Ah, to be a cat when I am editing. Kitty O did it with such finesse, such patience, and for what? Do I really care if every fur on his body is clean? I love him no matter what. Yet when I edit, I often rush to move on, to get to the next page. If there is a beauty in the cleanliness of one fur, then surely there is a beauty in choosing the right word.
But after some time, what did I do? I circled around him, to get to my chores. To delay the editing process.
But perhaps because I write this blog, I am processing what I witnessed this morning and come the time when I am editing the second Commissioner Oscar D'Costa mystery, I will recall that marvelous sequence of paw to cheek and use it, fingers to words.
My readers, I hope will appreciate the time and energy...and intelligence. :-)
June 26, 2015
The Great Purr-tender
That would be my cat, also know as Kitty O, Kitty, Meow Master, etc. etc. etc.
And being a cat, he know how to purr though because he is a cat, he does so ONLY when he wishes to. I'm a writer, which means I write, but unlike my cat who calls up a purr or two when he is in the mood, there are many a time, like now, when I simply can't conjure up the words. Sigh. IF only I were more like a cat.
That being said, scientists aren't exactly sure how a cat purrs. And I have never met a person who has the cure for writer's block. Many theories abound for purrs, and there are many fixes for that pesky block. So I suppose I am a bit like a cat. The wrong bit, that is. Sigh.
And thereby hangs a tail. Oh wait, I meant tale.
And being a cat, he know how to purr though because he is a cat, he does so ONLY when he wishes to. I'm a writer, which means I write, but unlike my cat who calls up a purr or two when he is in the mood, there are many a time, like now, when I simply can't conjure up the words. Sigh. IF only I were more like a cat.
That being said, scientists aren't exactly sure how a cat purrs. And I have never met a person who has the cure for writer's block. Many theories abound for purrs, and there are many fixes for that pesky block. So I suppose I am a bit like a cat. The wrong bit, that is. Sigh.
And thereby hangs a tail. Oh wait, I meant tale.
June 17, 2015
Why is a cat like a book?
Remember how Alice was stumped by the Hatter's infamous riddle: Why is a raven like a writing desk?
Why is cat like a book, you ask? Because both generate such strong reactions...for a variety of reasons, both sage and bizarre. I've known an entire family fall in love with a dumpster rescued kitten, scrawny, with eyes that filled its fearful face. And I know others who hate the sight of any cat, glorious or otherwise.
It's the same with books. People love them or hate them and sometimes just that initial, instinctive response is enough, without any "because."
As a writer struggling with plot, I didn't have the time to think about readers. But now that I have readers, I love learning from them. A few have not liked my debut mystery, "The Girl Who Went Missing," with one reviewer noting that it wasn't "my cup of tea." Fair enough. I understand that totally because I drink green tea and loathe Earl Grey. Another fretted that Commissioner Oscar D'Costa doesn't get enough type time in the novel and hoped he would have a bigger role in the next one. Point taken. I am, even now, giving D'Costa more pages in the second book. It's lovely to have this back and forth of words over time and space, which, selfishly, help me in my quest to be a writer.
Apparently readers wrote Lewis Carroll as well and bugged him enough about the riddle that he came up with an answer: "Because it can produce a few notes, tho they are very flat, and it is nevar put with the wrong end in front."
Notice his spelling of never; it's nevar, which is raven spelled backwards.
I am not as clever as Charles Dodgson, though I do koo for cats...and thereby hangs a tale.
Why is cat like a book, you ask? Because both generate such strong reactions...for a variety of reasons, both sage and bizarre. I've known an entire family fall in love with a dumpster rescued kitten, scrawny, with eyes that filled its fearful face. And I know others who hate the sight of any cat, glorious or otherwise.
It's the same with books. People love them or hate them and sometimes just that initial, instinctive response is enough, without any "because."
As a writer struggling with plot, I didn't have the time to think about readers. But now that I have readers, I love learning from them. A few have not liked my debut mystery, "The Girl Who Went Missing," with one reviewer noting that it wasn't "my cup of tea." Fair enough. I understand that totally because I drink green tea and loathe Earl Grey. Another fretted that Commissioner Oscar D'Costa doesn't get enough type time in the novel and hoped he would have a bigger role in the next one. Point taken. I am, even now, giving D'Costa more pages in the second book. It's lovely to have this back and forth of words over time and space, which, selfishly, help me in my quest to be a writer.
Apparently readers wrote Lewis Carroll as well and bugged him enough about the riddle that he came up with an answer: "Because it can produce a few notes, tho they are very flat, and it is nevar put with the wrong end in front."
Notice his spelling of never; it's nevar, which is raven spelled backwards.
I am not as clever as Charles Dodgson, though I do koo for cats...and thereby hangs a tale.
June 10, 2015
TS Eliot Redux
In the "Old Possum's Book of Practical Cats," one particularly memorable poem begins, "The Naming of Cats is a difficult matter." With all due respect to TS Eliot, he goes on to give said cat three different names, proving that it isn't so much a difficult matter, as a multiple matter. May I suggest instead, that the RAISING of a cat is a difficult matter.
Kitty O is a case in point. He doesn't want to be raised as much as wish to raise me...especially in the middle of the night when either nature calls, (what I refer to as the 'bladder gladder' trip) or he has just remembered a date with the possum who lives next door in a tree. I am, as ever, his willing servant, dutifully letting him out and equally dotingly never trying to raise him because-- it's a very difficult matter -- which means I might as well think he is purr-fect.
Quite different from the second Commissioner Oscar D'Costa mystery I am currently writing. It's not perfect, it needs to be raised to a higher level, and though I lay awake at night wondering how to do just that, inspiration is not always cooperative. But I am nothing if not cattish, as in, I will keep trying, in much the same way that Kitty O keeps refusing to be raised.
As I write this, he is curled up next to me, leaving me very uncomfortable, but he, of course, is happily snoring. In another part of my computer, the novel awaits.
Kitty O is a case in point. He doesn't want to be raised as much as wish to raise me...especially in the middle of the night when either nature calls, (what I refer to as the 'bladder gladder' trip) or he has just remembered a date with the possum who lives next door in a tree. I am, as ever, his willing servant, dutifully letting him out and equally dotingly never trying to raise him because-- it's a very difficult matter -- which means I might as well think he is purr-fect.
Quite different from the second Commissioner Oscar D'Costa mystery I am currently writing. It's not perfect, it needs to be raised to a higher level, and though I lay awake at night wondering how to do just that, inspiration is not always cooperative. But I am nothing if not cattish, as in, I will keep trying, in much the same way that Kitty O keeps refusing to be raised.
As I write this, he is curled up next to me, leaving me very uncomfortable, but he, of course, is happily snoring. In another part of my computer, the novel awaits.
June 4, 2015
Kitty O, Jackie O and India
I have always enjoyed Ivy Schex's poem, "To everything there is a season." Like other poems I have read over the years, this one runs through my head every now and then. I think of it not just as time passing, but as moments that are defined by a particular time. Take the name "Kitty O" that I sometimes call my cat. A teenager probably won't get the reference to a certain Jackie O. My friends who do, get a good chuckle out of watching a plump grey cat saunter up when I call out: Kitty O!
Words, topics, also come and go. My children recently explained that 'dope' now has a completely new meaning. Who knew? Notice I am not saying "Who cares?" because I do. I care very much. As writers we are the caretakers of words and moments. Years ago someone in the sciences accosted me at a party and proclaimed that his work was much more important than "mere writing." I looked him straight in the eye and said, "Scientists do some wonderful work, but they are also the ones who devised bombs and helped escalate the carnage in wars. We writers are the ones who make people remember those terrible moments. And it is our words, hopefully, that will help end wars." He kept quiet....as well he should.
Kitty O is out of fashion, but I am happy to note that India isn't. Twenty years ago people in the West would know of India in a distant way. Today many can name cities, like Bangalore, where I lived for three years at a time when very few people owned computers.
For every writer there is a time, and for every book there is a milieu. I am delighted and relieved that the place I find myself writing about is one most people can find rather easily on maps.
The land mass of India is like a finger, sticking into the Indian Ocean, recalling both a time past and a time present.
Words, topics, also come and go. My children recently explained that 'dope' now has a completely new meaning. Who knew? Notice I am not saying "Who cares?" because I do. I care very much. As writers we are the caretakers of words and moments. Years ago someone in the sciences accosted me at a party and proclaimed that his work was much more important than "mere writing." I looked him straight in the eye and said, "Scientists do some wonderful work, but they are also the ones who devised bombs and helped escalate the carnage in wars. We writers are the ones who make people remember those terrible moments. And it is our words, hopefully, that will help end wars." He kept quiet....as well he should.
Kitty O is out of fashion, but I am happy to note that India isn't. Twenty years ago people in the West would know of India in a distant way. Today many can name cities, like Bangalore, where I lived for three years at a time when very few people owned computers.
For every writer there is a time, and for every book there is a milieu. I am delighted and relieved that the place I find myself writing about is one most people can find rather easily on maps.
The land mass of India is like a finger, sticking into the Indian Ocean, recalling both a time past and a time present.
May 27, 2015
Two loves I have, of comfort and despair
Indeed I have more loves, of course, but I think of two interchangeable ones when it comes to comfort and despair: My Cat and my writing.
Most days I have only to look at the grey furs and soft, padded paws of my cat to feel a wealth of happiness that I have him in my life. Stretched outside, sun in his eyes, belly bulging out, he is the epitome of comfort, both in himself and that which he imparts. In those moments I want to forget about my writing schedule and I simply wish to hang out with him and scratch his back. He is very particular about where I am allowed to scratch him; the stomach is verboten and he does NOT appreciate the song "Put another nipple in, in that Nippleodeon."
But then he goes off in the evening and doesn't return to the sound of my calling voice and I despair that something has happened to him. I spend all night checking the back door and one time, by chance, went to the front door, and there he was, sitting on the Welcome mat, waiting to be let into the house where he jumped onto a comfortable bed -- my son's, not mine, because he loves 'his brother' more than he does me.
My writing comforts me in a different way. I need to write because I am always writing in my head, because when I don't, I feel something is missing. On a good writing day I can set down 2000 words and at the end feel both happy and accomplished. But on a bad day, I am full of despair and wonder why on earth did I choose this career?
I think it is this yin-yang that makes life interesting. If I did not despair over the cat, I would not know how very much I love him. If I did not despair over my writing, I would not realize how very much I need it in my life.
Most days I have only to look at the grey furs and soft, padded paws of my cat to feel a wealth of happiness that I have him in my life. Stretched outside, sun in his eyes, belly bulging out, he is the epitome of comfort, both in himself and that which he imparts. In those moments I want to forget about my writing schedule and I simply wish to hang out with him and scratch his back. He is very particular about where I am allowed to scratch him; the stomach is verboten and he does NOT appreciate the song "Put another nipple in, in that Nippleodeon."
But then he goes off in the evening and doesn't return to the sound of my calling voice and I despair that something has happened to him. I spend all night checking the back door and one time, by chance, went to the front door, and there he was, sitting on the Welcome mat, waiting to be let into the house where he jumped onto a comfortable bed -- my son's, not mine, because he loves 'his brother' more than he does me.
My writing comforts me in a different way. I need to write because I am always writing in my head, because when I don't, I feel something is missing. On a good writing day I can set down 2000 words and at the end feel both happy and accomplished. But on a bad day, I am full of despair and wonder why on earth did I choose this career?
I think it is this yin-yang that makes life interesting. If I did not despair over the cat, I would not know how very much I love him. If I did not despair over my writing, I would not realize how very much I need it in my life.
