Mollie Hunt's Blog, page 77
June 19, 2015
Inkitt Writing Contest, FATED PARADOX
A few days ago, I was invited to enter a writing contest called “Fated Paradox”. The name was so intriguing that I pressed a noir story I’ve considered for a while, something quite different for me (no cats). I have submitted “Suicide Note” for consideration.
SUICIDE NOTE, a noir romp in the park: I don’t have the stomach for suicide: someone else must do it for me.
People win by votes, so if you like the story lease vote for it. You can visit the Inkitt website and check it out. http://www.inkitt.com/fatedparadox
June 13, 2015
SINGING TO CATS
The other day someone from my facebook cat group started a conversation about whether anyone else sang to their cats. There was a flurry of replies, all to the positive. Of course! We’re cat people. Cat people sing to cats!
But what do we sing? Debussy? Hip Hop? The Meow Mix song? (Sorry, now that descending meow-meow-meow-meow will be stuck in your head for the rest of the day.) Apparently there is no right answer, we sing whatever we please. From Gilbert & Sullivan to a tuneless hum, what matters is the action itself. Both cats and people react to the transcendence of music.
Which brings us to the big question: Why? Why is it so natural to look into those big yellow-orange-green-blue eyes and sing?
Maybe because it’s fun, joyful, relaxing. Or maybe because music “soothes the savage beasts” (human and cat). Maybe because cats accept us as we are – I mean, where else could we get head butts in exchange for a silly off-key ditty? Not in the workplace, that’s for sure!
Is song a form of human purring? A wordless communication between species that, by its very action, brings us close?
Sad alert: The following paragraph contains material that may be heartbreaking to those who have lost a beloved pet.
Wrangler’s time had come. His kidneys had failed and there was no going back, no quality of life remaining. At that time, vets didn’t come to the house, so I had taken him to the office and was waiting for Doctor to see us. I held his thin body in my arms, stroked the golden fur and sang. It was a tune I had hummed to him throughout his life. I hoped he remembered it with love, prayed he might find comfort in the familiar melody. He became very calm, there before the end, so maybe he did.
~Wrangler~
Whether to calm, honor, or entertain your cat, the consensus is Yes! We sing to cats! So next time Fluffy gives you the evil eye because feeding time is a little late, or Tom is nervous about going in the car, voice up and sing! If nothing else, it may be fun.
June 6, 2015
VIEW FROM THE BRIDGE OF THE ENTERPRISE
Captain Kirk was shorter than he looked standing on the bridge of the Enterprise. It was the regality of his surroundings, the poise of his stance, and of course the camera angle that made him look tall as a Norse god. Not that tallness makes the man. Astronauts are often short; better to fit into those tiny floating space-bottles to the stars.
To quote Monty, the internet cat, “…looking different doesn’t mean you can’t be fantastic! Looks don’t matter.”
I love Monty and his gentle persistence in teaching us humans to love each other. And Monty, though born without a nasal bridge, is undeniably cute.
Looks don’t matter, and cats don’t care. They don’t strive to change their appearance, fit themselves to some arbitrary standard. They don’t wear bikinis, shave their legs, or pose for Vanity Fair.
The person I see in the mirror is me but not me. There is more to me than the gray face gray hair of old age. Do I dare to shine? To radiate? To transcend? Not because of anything I’ve done but just because?
Life sparkles.
The magic hand of God, not to be taken lightly.
June 1, 2015
BOLT HOLE
“Bolt·hole: noun. A place where a person can escape and hide: a safe or restful place: a place where you can hide or escape from something that is dangerous or unpleasant. Chiefly British. First known use, circa 1851”
The first time I heard the term, bolt hole, was in a Sherlock Holmes movie, an older one with Jeremy Brett. Sherlock had procured a “bolt hole”, a place known only to him, from where he could do his ingenious detecting in absolute secret. In his case, it was a room in the depths of seedy London. In my case, it’s anywhere my location isn’t commonly known. A place where no one will come to find me, interrupt me, or know what I do with my stolen time.
That’s how I think of it: stolen time. Time snatched from work, home, schedule, protocol, and public display. I don’t know why I consider it a crime: I just do.
Back to the bolt hole. I have actually imagined what it would be like to go someplace and rent a room that no one in the whole wide world knew existed. A tiny bit of an alternate life. What would I do there? Be quiet, regroup, sleep? Write. I’d never go through with it though. Maybe I’ll live it vicariously through a character in a book.
There is an element of danger in the bolt hole. If I died, had a heart attack, fell down and couldn’t get up, who would fine me? No one would know where to look. It would be frightening to be wounded and know no one would come. And it’s unthinkable to put my family through the pain. It’s not them I’m trying to escape from. It’s me.
Yes, I’m the one who makes the rules like a demented schoolmarm, then plays the guilt through my head whenever I don’t live up. All the self-love therapy, all the Al-Anon meetings haven’t rid me of those deep seated (and arbitrary) laws of my existence.
So I find an occasional handy bolt hole, run inside and lock the door. Then I try to remember what I would be doing if I weren’t doing what I thought I should be doing. Maybe nothing at all.
May 31, 2015
Mollie Hunt Book Reading and Signing Event – and a Cat
Live to write – write to live. And sometimes give a public appearance.
This will be my first and I’m nervous, excited, scared, empowered, and at a loss for words (not a great thing for a writer) that anyone is interested in what I have to say. That’s why I’m taking Tinkerbelle, my beautiful therapy cat, facebook celebrity, and friend of my heart as a furry distraction.
Mollie Hunt, local cat mystery writer, will read, sign, and discuss her Crazy Cat Lady mysteries, “Cats’ Eyes” and “Copy Cats” at Another Read Through independent bookseller (3932 N Mississippi Ave, Portland, Oregon 97227) on June 11, 7:00 – 8:00 pm. Mollie will be accompanied by special guest Tinkerbelle, her registered Pet Partner therapy cat.
About the author: Like her main character, Mollie Hunt volunteers at local cat shelters, fosters cats for the Oregon Humane Society, and visits hospice patients with Tinkerbelle. Last year, Mollie worked with Jackson Galaxy, noted cat behaviorist, to help internet-famous Lux the 911 cat.
“I know Mollie as a true, dyed-in-the-wool cat person, as a cat guardian and a foster parent and, most importantly, as a human being. One thing I can spot a mile away is true passion… and Mollie Hunt has it. People like Mollie are rare in this world because they infuse their own curiosity about that world with true empathy… the recipe for not only a quality person, but, in the end, a great artist as well.”
Jackson Galaxy | Cat Behavior Consultant
Mollie’s books, “Cats’ Eyes” and “Copy Cats”, are available on Amazon and at Another Read Through bookstore in Portland.
Facebook Reading Event Page here: https://www.facebook.com/events/1385935395069484/
Mollie Hunt, Cat Writer Facebook page here: https://www.facebook.com/MollieHuntCatWriter
Tinkerbelle Facebook page here: https://www.facebook.com/TinkerbelleTheTherapyCat
May 21, 2015
IT’S BEEN A LONG TIME SINCE I’VE WORN HIGH HEELS
It’s been a long time since I’ve worn high heels. The aging feet don’t fit the same way they used to. The aging legs feel awkward, not sexy. The aging butt will take more than a little lift to regain its attractive youth.
Yet I wonder? How would widening hips feel crammed into a pencil skirt?
Would a boustier do anything good for sagging breasts?
And if I applied that careful layer of makeup – the teal and smoky eyes, blushing cheekbones, and bee-stung lips – would it cover my flaws or merely lie like a grotesque mask across my wrinkles?
So I’ll wrap myself in the silk of self-respect embellished by serenity. Sun on my face and a cat on my lap, unencumbered and barefoot.
May 20, 2015
IF PAIN WERE PURPLE
If pain were purple or spotted or spikey, it might not be so easy to pass off as a figment of imagination. If you came into work with a bright mauve complexion or walked down the street encased in thorns, people might not be so quick to say, “It’s all in your head” or worse, “You’re faking”.
You’re not faking.
Every nerve is on fire: you’re not faking.
Every joint embedded with sand: you’re not faking.
Chronic pain is real. It’s debilitating. It’s misunderstood.
Chronic pain doesn’t happen because you’re a weenie, a coward, too sensitive, a complainer, or a pain in the ass. It happens because something’s wrong.
Chronic pain may not swell or bleed or bruise or show any symptoms at all, but it’s as real as a broken leg, a stab in the back.
Next time you’re confronted with someone in pain, practice empathy. Trust me, you would not like to trade places with them. Their pain may not show, but that only makes it harder to bear in a world that believes in only what can be seen with the human eye.
An article on chronic pain from WebMD: http://www.webmd.com/pain-management/guide/understanding-pain-management-chronic-pain
An article on fibromyalga pain from WebMD: http://www.webmd.com/fibromyalgia/guide/fibromyalgia-pain
May 17, 2015
Long Row
A blog of life wisdom for the beginning of gardening season.
Originally posted on Storyshucker:
A friend of mine will soon move to a new house and has been consumed with the process of packing for quite some time. He lamented the fact that no matter how much he gets done he continues to see piles and stacks and shelves full of things yet to be boxed. Adding to the stress, he’s nearing the semester’s end of coursework towards a Master’s degree. This combination has him overwhelmed. He complained a bit more about the work left to do.
“I’ll never finish.” he moaned after his update.
“Well.” I said. “It’s like that row of tomatoes.”
He didn’t get it.
With no idea what I meant he stared into the distance preoccupied by stress. Then, remembering similar comments of mine in the past his head whirled back towards me. “Wait, is that another Nannie thing?” he asked.
“It’s another Nannie thing.” I nodded confirmation and began…
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BOOK READING: READING BOOKS
I have a book reading coming up in a few weeks. Okay, I admit it: it is my first reading. I’ll be reading from both published Crazy Cat Lady mysteries, “Cats’ Eyes” and “Copy Cats”. I haven’t decided which portions to read; that seems to be last on my list, preceded by marketing and promoting, getting out word. I invited everyone on my facebook list, including my dentist. It won’t matter what I read if no one comes.
That’s the fear, isn’t it? That you’ll throw a party and no one will come? But I’ve done that, back in my salad days, and lived. No, my personal fears have evolved from the basic embarrassment factor to something much deeper. What if they don’t like my books?
The short answer is it’s not my problem. I write because there is a story to tell and I am compelled to tell it. I like my books. The cozy cat mystery has become its own genre. I strive to walk in the footsteps of authors such as Lillian Jackson Braun and Shirley Rousseau Murphy who have brought their cats to a whole new level of perception.
Yesterday I was perusing the shelves of a bookstore and someone commented that I had diverse taste in books. I had to think about it because I don’t see myself that way. If it isn’t entertaining, it probably won’t be on my shelf. (The exception is a cat theme: I’ll try just about anything with a cat on the cover.) If it doesn’t have a happy ending or at least dole out justice deserved, it also won’t be on my shelf. If it is written poorly, no matter how great the story, it may be on the shelf but I probably will never finish it. (Please, writers, get a professional editor before you publish.) I like stories that twist but don’t lose me in a maze, that scare but don’t disturb, that have color, scent, sound, and senses on every page. I prefer they move along and not dwell. Bottom line, I am a shallow entertainment junkie.
Reading currently: Phillip Margolin’s “Woman with a Gun”, Shirley Rousseau Murphy’s “The Cat, The Devil, and Lee Fontana”, Daniel H.Wilson’s “Robopocalypse”, Leonard Nimoy’s “I Am Spock”, Jo Barney’s “Uprush”.
On my kindle, David Gerrold’s “Voyage of the Star Wolf”, Miranda James’ “Arsenic & Old Books”, Jeanne Owens’ “Chronicles of Riss”.
In my car (Audio books): Louise Penny’s “Still Life”.
Favorite all-time read: “Titus Groan” by Mervyn Peake, the Gormeghast Trilogy.
Happy reading!
Mollie Hunt Book Reading – Everyone Welcome!
May 15, 2015
THE RED SKIRT
“When I wear my red skirt …I write my favourite things on trees.”
Everyone handles grief differently. When my mother died, putting me – her only child – in charge of dispatching her belongings, I was ruthless. All her clothes went into that big black garbage bag destined for charity. Including the red skirt.
She had worn the red skirt often. It was made of a soft tee-shirt material that defied time and machine washing. She gardened in it, napped in it, lounged and went to the store in it. Between washings, it was liberally sprinkled with Paddy fur from her huge Maine Coon cat.
The red skirt is not to be confused with Star Trek’s red shirt, the downfall of a myriad of uniformed extras. The red skirt was life, not death. A splash of color on a rainy Portland day. Encouragement for the old of body but not of soul.
“When I am an old woman, I shall wear purple red!”
It has been thirteen years, but I haven’t forgotten that magical red skirt.
I want it back.
I want the red skirt back.
