Ten Things I Learned from my Cat About Writing

By Jordan Dane

@JordanDane

I'm convinced cats are noble beings reincarnated into a beautiful and graceful creature with four legs and plenty of attitude. No one owns a cat. They allow you to live with them. They tolerate you. Their fierce independence is one of my favorite qualities of theirs. At the mere drop of a string, they are ready to play. And when they are happy, their purr sounds like a fine-tuned engine.

Here are TEN things I learned from my cat(s) about writing:

 

1.) Be suspicious of every character you meet, even the ones you live with. That keeps the tension going and readers won’t know who they can trust either.       

2.) Suspense is all about anticipation of something bad about to happen, like when my cat stares behind me and makes me turn around. Without even a word, my cat can make me think a serial killer is creeping up on me. How do they do that? I’m still working on adapting that technique for my writing.

3.) If a scene gags you, think what it will do to the next guy. Cough it up and get rid of it. Some things are meant for the trash. When it’s a pile in front of you, you’ll know it when you see it. Then just walk away. This works in the litter box too.

4.) A cat knows pace. If there is a back story path that meanders across the top of a sofa or winds around legs in a prodding fashion, that is all well and good, but why not walk OVER people to get where you need to go and take the most direct route?

5.) Take naps. If you’re prone to writer’s block, a nap can’t hurt. There is nothing like a nap or basking in the sun to rejuvenate your perspective. Cats are specialists in looking out for numero uno. Learn from a master and take heed. Getting stressed out over things you can’t control is a waste of time and a distraction from your writing.

6.) Be a good observer of your surroundings. Narrow your eyes and really take a look around. Don’t take anything for granted. Everything is interesting when you narrow your eyes. Try it. (People who Botox should avoid this.)

7.) Look before you leap. If you pay attention, you’ll land on your feet with style and grace.

8.) Be flexible. It feels good to S-T-R-E-T-C-H yourself.

9.) Curiosity never killed anything.

10.) Climb your way to the top. Be fearless and maybe even cop an attitude. You can’t reach your dream if you think small and stay safe. Dare to take risks and have an adventure.  


I’d love to hear your cat stories. I have two rescue cats – Pinot Grigio (yes, we named him when we were looking at a wine menu) and Foochie Focker (don’t ask).

What has your cat taught you?

Indigo Awakening by Jordan Dane voted the winner of "Best of 2012" Paranormal Category by BookTwirps 

Cavalcade of Authors

By Maureen McQuerry




There’s something magical about 900 middle grade and high school students coming to together to celebrate reading and writing. In fact, it sounds like author fantasyland and it was.

Last weekend I got to be part of that magic at Cavalcade of Authors in Pasco, WA. All the students worked hard to be there. They had to read at least four of the books by the sixteen authors who attended. They had to agree to make-up any work they missed at school. The students were transported for a day to a local college where they rotated between authors to take hour long workshops on subjects like how to write a fight scene, three act structure and conflict and tension. I didn’t notice a single eye roll or anyone texting in a workshop; they all wanted to be there. The audience hung on every word and then asked amazing, well- informed questions about our books. And we got to meet 15 other hard working authors and hear their stories.

Here’s where the magic happened for me. The authors and students all shared a common interest, a love of reading and writing. It didn’t matter how young or old we were, how tattooed or plain. How do you get 900 kids to love reading and writing? Each of those students was inspired by someone. Maybe it was an author speaking through a character in a book, maybe a parent, maybe a teacher. For those few hours, what mattered was story. And as one eager reader said, "This was the best day of school ever!"

Which came first?: a dose of inspiration

Ah yes, it's that age-old question we've all asked/heard/pondered: Which came first, the chicken or the egg? 

It's also the question that, no matter one's stance, cannot honestly be answered. For none of us were around when the chicken came to be. (or the egg, depending on which side of the fence you fall.)

But perhaps if we change a couple of the words, an answer may be within reach. Hmm...how about if we replace "chicken" with "author" and "egg" with "book?" Let's see... 

Which came first, the author or the book?

Ah, now that's something we can work on.

The obvious answer is duh, the author. For a book to be written, a person must be born first, no? See? I told you it was easy!

But let's look a little deeper, shall we?

I'm sure that if asked, you could come up with the book, the one tome that sits high on a perch above all others in your Master List of literary perfection (For me, that's To Kill A Mockingbird, no doubt about it). I'm also sure that if the scribe of said book were asked, they would tell you they have no clue in Hades how they managed to put together the words you cherish so very much. They'd say it's as if an unseen force came over them, pulled that story from their mind and bled it onto the page or screen, and left them to carry the weight of having penned one of the most cherished and beloved works of art ever created (I'm talkin' to you, Harper Lee). There's no way they can explain the magic behind the sentences... And there isn't a chance they'd ever be able to re-create the phenomenon.

Which totally debunks our easy-peasy answer that the author came first, right? I mean, surely a work as magnificent and mind-blowing and heart-warming as (INSERT FAVE NOVEL HERE) comes from some otherworldly dimension, where emphatic prose sits around and waits for its moment to be--and not from the simple mind of a common human? That's just insane.

So there...the book came first!

But wait, that's even more insane, isn't it? I mean, we've already established that words don't just write themselves. So the person--the author--had to come first. Right?

Or maybe, just maybe, the stars align. And the planets align. And whatever omnipotent force you believe in makes all the right in the world align. And suddenly you find yourself sitting in a trance as everything around you grows dark and foreboding, your brain nothing more than a pile of day-old mashed potatoes, your body frozen in place. Days, weeks, months go by in a breath, time meaningless and insignificant. You awaken, tired and drained and feeling as though something...some "unseen force..." has invaded your person.

And your computer. 

For sitting before you now, raw and painful and real, is a work of art that only you could have created. That only you were meant to write. That only you had the power to let be.

So to hell with which came first. You just wrote a book, my friend.

And that is the only answer that matters. 

At the End of a Very Long, No-Good, and Very Bad Day

Ever have one of those days where NOTHING goes right?  Hello . . . I just suffered through one.  EVERYTHING, from the moment I spilled my coffee (sacrilege!) to the instant I realized that the lemon-blueberry bundt cake I LABORED over wasn't coming out of the bloody pan (note to self: next time, don't use the blueberries you froze last fall because they SINK to the bottom of the pan and STICK, no matter how much flour you coat those little suckers with)--to the bloody book that just doesn't feel quite right . . . yes, it's been that kind of day.

What I think about after a day like today is what makes me . . . afraid?  Worried?  Worried; I like that word better.  Afraid makes me sound like a wuss.  Worried. . . I'm only mildly anxious (even when I'm anything but).

Let me explain.

I'm doing this guest post for the Horror Writers of America blog, and so I get these questions.  Of course, one of the questions is about fear, and more specifically what frightens me now as an adult versus what might have frightened me as a kid.  I'll tell you what I told them: when I was a kid, I wasn't scared of very much except being alone, in a dark house, late at night.  I think it was the stillness that got to me.  So long as there was some kind of white noise—a fan, say, or some steady drone—I was fine.  But once it got ~~quiet~~, every bump and creak used to freak me out.   I hated windows without blinds or curtains; who the hell knew what was out there, looking in?  So, of course, when I babysat, I made sure every light was on and the TV just loud enough so that when the homicidal maniac came through the door, I wouldn't hear him until it was too late.  It was a wonder no one docked my pay to cover the electric bill.

One thing I didn't mention, though, was that I was afraid of disappointing my parents.  It was just this global amorphous concern, and it completely freaked me out.  When you're a kid, you work hard in school to tell the teacher what you know--and to please your parents.  So, not pleasing them, making them upset or not want to have anything more to do with me . . . scared me.  In my house, if you didn't please a parent, you got one of two things: either a very LOUD talking-to (accompanied by other very LOUD and UNPLEASANT things)--or you got the freeze-treatment.  It wasn't just that you were letting yourself down (in fact, YOU, as a kid, usually weren't in the equation).  No, no, you'd disappointed your parents.  You'd hurt them.  So you worked very hard at becoming competent; you studied harder, learned more, did more than other kids.

This may explain why, as an adult . . . I crave silence.  I like being alone.  My circle of friends is small.  I protect myself.  I love the dark.  So, go figure.

Still, honestly, nowadays, very little freaks me out.  I wasn't even all that worried for or about my kids, although I do remember turning all ninja-mom when some bozo spooked one of my girls.  Guy was lucky to leave that grocery story with his teeth.  (Another true story: big old wasp—we're talking something with BOEING written on the side—landed on my baby's shoulder?  I bare-handed that sucker, threw it down, ground it to paste.  My husband's eyeballs about fell out of their sockets.  Then we all went back to our burgers.)

In part, I think my tolerance for the horrific is because of my past life as a doc.  You know, hang around the emergency room or a psych ward or women's prison for a while, and you see some pretty terrible stuff.   Now, it's true: I really don’t want to be held up at gunpoint; I don't think I'd care much for, oh, drowning, being strangled, or knifed to death.  A stiletto pointing at my eyeball would be right up there on my freak-out-o’meter.  (Come to think of it, maybe all those times I put my poor characters in those life and death situations, I’m really trying to work through things.  You see, this is what comes of being a shrink.  You navel-gaze a lot. You think about the impact of your parents in your life.  Then you go see a friend or talk to your husband who tells you to get a grip.)

But, in reality, I guess there comes a point where, sure, you can be scared, but if you don’t do something, you’re dead.  So if I get scared, I work on getting competent.  A little anxiety is not a bad thing, by the way; anyone who doesn't doubt herself before trying to tell a story is a fool.

At this point, the things that freak me out all revolve around things that make me mad (and sad) because there’s no way I can become competent.  Climate change and mass extinction are right up there.  Scare the bejesus out of me because I know there’s very little I can do except scream at politicians and be as environmentally responsible as I can.

Today, though, I've felt a tad incompetent, and from the get-go.  The book's not coming together; the cake was a disaster (okay, not totally; it was scrumptious but not pretty); I can't, for the life of me, see how I'm going to pick myself up from this mess.  It does no good for my ever-tolerant, ever-patient husband to remind me that I am ALWAYS like this when I write a book; that I am ALWAYS convinced it is drek; that I ALWAYS flail.

For the moment--this instant, tonight--I feel incompetent, and that freaks me out.  There is no help for it; I'm not some movie star, like Gloria Swanson/Norma Desmond, who can watch old films of herself when she was once someone.

All I can do is remind myself that I have been competent; I know how to do this (this being write a decent story); and if things aren't coming together today, they either will tomorrow or the next day or at some point when I figure out why they're not.

Someone once asked me if there was ever a story that defeated me.  I've written a blog about that, actually; and the short answer is yes and no.  Of course, stories defeat me; they humble me all the time; they take me down a notch or two; and sometimes, they punch me in the nose and laugh as I stagger and bleed all over the keyboard because, to their mind, I've no business in the ring to begin with.

But the one thing I have always done is get back in the ring.  I have always fought back, and I have always learned new tricks to best this beast.  

There's this great mantra that Frank Herbert put in the mouth of Paul Atreides as he's being tested by the Bene Gesserit in a trial of mind over feeling, and it's worth repeating here:

I must not fear.

Fear is the mind-killer.

Fear is the little death that brings total obliteration

I will face my fear.

I will permit it to pass over me and through me.

And when it has gone, I will the turn the inner eye to see its path.

Where the fear has gone, there will be nothing.

Only I will remain.

Wish I'd written that.  If that's too melodramatic for you--but, you writers out there, you know what I'm talking about; fear really will cripple you--then try this one for size.  It comes from an essay by Alexander Chee who wrote a fine piece about what he learned from Annie Dillard (a fabulous writer; her best work, to my mind, is An American Childhood, a book that still has the ability to make me cry): 

What I saw on the page was that the voice is in fact trapped, nervous, lazy. Even, and in my case, most especially, amnesiac. And that it had to be cut free.

So, I think . . . it's time: time to call it a day, time for a good night's sleep--and time to cut myself free and let my story find me . . . tomorrow.  Because I'm blessed with a tomorrow.