hobbitonStaring at  my writing, I heard what I thought was our younger cat pulverizing the bedroom window’s screen, as he does when he’d like to be let inside, despite the little Hobbiton upside-down-U’s we had cut in pertinent doors, just for felines. But when I ran to investigate (because writers will love distraction), I discovered the sounds were coming from inside a dresser drawer. When I pulled the drawer open, our older cat, Al, blinked at me accusingly. I’d coffin-ized him. Not sure for how long. I rushed him to his food bowl with apologies and a scoop of holistic wet mush the pet person said was crucial for older cats. I watched Al for a bit, worrying. He ate, he bathed, he curled up on the dog’s bed and slept, hours…

I try to think of it not as writer’s block, but as a stressfully strict, seasonal (Fall Fall Darkest Fall–in Southern California!) gestational period. I’m coffin-ized–eyes wide open, roof-span right there, each natural whorl so close. I want to see, I insist (tired). I want to see.

Hobbiton exhibited at an airport. Or was it a train station? Public Hobbiton. The mind wanders...

Public Hobbiton.

About PB Rippey

Writer, wife, mother, grateful. Fiction, memoir, poetry, kidlit (MG), member SCBWI.
This entry was posted in Avoiding My Writing, Children's Books, dog, Faction, Writing, WTF and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

2 Responses to Screens

  1. Beth Hull says:

    Poor Al! But every time fall rolls around, I crave a small padded space. With plenty of air, and heat. Blankets, some nice gloves. And some cake, of course.
    Hang in there, friend. The words will come back.

Words do not escape you

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