Thanks again for reading.

Wow. I don’t know what to write today. I think all my brain cells dedicated to writing are all tied up with this novel. Which is a good thing, I guess — I think some of my posts have been suffering in quality because of my latest writing obsession.

I suppose I could take a break from the blog while writing, but — I can’t —

Because I love the attention.

I’m not really an accomplished Facebook writer, because I don’t know how to be one of the cool kids. Honestly. I’m in my own little world sometimes, and someone asks, “How are you?” and I say, “Kitty! Look at the kitty!”

I love that you’re visiting me. I hope I’m not babbling every day, I hope you care about what you read, I hope that I’m giving you an idea about what the mind of a writer, and in this case a cute, cuddly writer who writes about apocalyptic futures (appearances can be deceiving, can’t they?) and cats.

Yes, I will be the first to admit that I can be a little dramatic, especially when talking about finding an agent, editing, and My Mission to Save the World through My Novels. (Capitalized for embarassing self-importance).

But I see you come visit — not by name, but by place: US (the majority of visitors), Portugal, Poland, Ukraine, Germany, Peru, Russia, Costa Rica (I think I know who you are!), France, Canada, United Kingdom (I DO know who you are!), Hong Kong and India (Haven’t seen you folks in a while!) and maybe a couple I’ve forgot.

Thank you for reading. Thank you for putting up with my ups and downs. Thank you for being the anonymous people who make my day.

Halloween — costumes and meanings

Welcome to Halloween, the holiday that (at least in the US) has developed from Puritan horror to childhood candy splurge to adult party excuse. (Note: I am not talking about the pagan Samhain or the Mexican Day of the Dead — these festivals should be acknowledged in their own right and not just as versions of US halloween.)

I grew up in the childhood candy splurge years, which held their own horrors — rumors of needles and razor blades and poison slipped into candies — mostly untrue — led my mother to ban trick-or-treating by the time I was six. Instead, my family went out to eat in our Halloween costumes, which meant I celebrated the adult Halloween as a child, only without alcohol.

I actually love the adult Halloween, because it gives me the opportunity to dress in silly costumes now that I’m too old to trick-or-treat. I don’t find this overly childish — or any more childish than I was when I asked the Christmas Fairy in the Walnut Room at Marshall Fields to grant me a wish. After all, masquerade balls have existed since the 1500’s in European culture, and no doubt in other cultures as well. We must feel a need to be someone — or something — else, an alter-ego to the person we are.

Today I’m dressing as Lauren, a limited edition Beanie Baby cat, complete with tag and Comic Sans jingle:

I am Lauren,
I’m a cat.
There is nothing
wrong with that!

I often dress up as cats. I have dressed up as my cat Kitty; a playful cat with Richard as Responsible Cat Owner to collect pet goodies for the Humane Society, and now as a Beanie Baby.

The Writer as a Beanie Baby

I don’t wear “sexy” costumes — like sexy firemen, sexy cops, sexy robbers, sexy schoolgirls, sexy Little Red Riding Hood … I have no problems with the fantasies running around in your heads — or my head — but sexual fantasies don’t translate well to real life, and they translate even worse to Halloween costumes. These costumes happen to be cheap mass merchandise store purchases rather than quality cosplay costumes, and render sexy as “cheap and tawdry”. I once donned a cat-in-a-miniskirt-and-fishnet-tights costume just before sneaking out of a departmental Halloween party in grad school. (Casimir Ihe, if you’re reading this, I remember you said, “Jesus Christ, what the Hell is THAT?!”)

There might be a reason for “sexy” costumes, though — maybe today’s sexual fantasies are yesterday’s ghosts, spirits we are frightened of and try to control, to subdue. The erotic, after all, has been a frightening force since hunter-gathers shifted into agricultural, then feudal, then industrial society — as long as paternity has been an issue, because Eros disrupts family lineage. The ancient Greeks, who came up with the word Eros, viewed erotic love as a force that led to insanity and tragedy. So some people find “safe” ways to play with Eros, by putting on costumes on Halloween that allow them to indulge sexiness without consequences. as some people find “safe” ways to play with Eros in real life by having fantasies of sexy firefighters (Nope, not my fantasy), or by dressing in fantasy tropes like red dresses and Lolicon cosplay.

Whatever your costume, Happy Halloween!

And NO, I am NOT a furry, nor do I have sexual fantasies involving cats.

Cats and the Writer

Someday I will write about writing about sex — but today is not that day. I’m feeling silly today, so instead, I’ll write about cats.

If I believe the memes on Facebook, all writers have cats. I’m pretty sure not all of them do, but the number of cat/writer memes far outstrip the number of dog/writer memes.

I have four cats — the luxurious Snowy (pure black; named for the irony value); the mischievious Me-Me, a petite grey and white; the caterwauling calico Girly-Girl, and the rotund black-and-white grump Stinkerbelle. They help me write as you might imagine — when I sit in the living room at my computer desk, they interrupt me by biting my toes (Me-Me), butting my arms (Snowy), and yelling at me (Girly). Think of these as enforced work breaks.

Exhibit 1: My cats: Snowy, Me-Me, Girly-Girl, and Stinkerbelle

I thought I could involve them in the writing process — “Me-Me, could you proofread this passage for me?” (Me-Me stares at me with her huge, adorable eyes and licks my nose.) Ok, maybe not.

Many writers love cats. My favorite example was Ernest Hemingway, who loved cats so much he let them wander his estate. Due to the high number of polydactyls (extra-toed) cats on his estate, extra-toed cats became known as “Hemingway Cats”.

Perhaps cats inspire writers to imagine. After all, their faces — darling, elegant, curmudgeonly, bewildered — display character traits that can be used in our stories. People personify cats in cat memes — for example, Diabeetus cat (who looked like Wilford Brimley, who starred in commercials about diabetes.)

Exhibit 2: A picture of Wilford Brimley and Diabeetus cat:

Writers even sneak cats into their stories. Robin D. Owens, in her Celta science fiction, writes a collection of telepathic cats who pick their owners. (She also has other animals, but I’m ignoring that for the sake of my thesis here). Cats have become detectives, as in Lilian Jackson Braun’s The Cat Who… series. The same things that drive cat-haters up the wall — their fickleness, their curiosity, their dignity, their mischief-making — make them good characters.

Why cats and not dogs? Dogs have different characteristics — they are usually perfect companions, and we associate them with hunting and with sitting by the fireplace. We don’t associate them with something that will break open a plot or withstand being gifted with anthropomorphic traits (like Diabeetus Cat above.

I have to go now — Girly-Girl has arrived for my enforced distraction …