And the writing point about this is: are your characters at least as different as my two cats?
1. Minnow drools like a running firehose when she’s being petted. Bites, too, and seems entirely unaware that she’s doing it.
2. She can’t move her eyes very well–it’s like they’re too big for her skull–and so turns her whole head to look at things.
3. She really likes to chew on plastic, and has that fiendish cat way of finding it wherever it is hidden.
4. She sings, operatically, late at night to the one toy that came to our house from her first home. The aria-yodels to Turtlebaby are heartfelt and loud, and if they happen to wake one out of a sound sleep, they can convince you that she’s regurgitating her own pancreas.
5. Minnow is the first cat we’ve ever had who wasn’t either black and white or gray and white.
6. She is a creature of passions. She loooooooves Turtlebaby. She loooooves the rubber zoom groom brush that keeps her overcoat glistening and soft. When she wants love she scampers around looking bug-eyed and beseeching.
7. She gives every appearance of enjoying it when I photograph her.
8. Somehow this matches up with the big bulgy eyes–her skin feels drum-tight. It’s not the loose rolling cat flesh one usually encounters, and when she purrs it’s a thrum, an intense hum bound in a high-pressure sheath.
9. She prefers cheap, grocery-grade treats to the healthy vet-bought ones. Baby loves her junk food.
10. Another passion: she lives to eat grassy things, especially chives, and loves to nom them back like an antelope cropping the savannah before coming indoors to spew green-laced biocontent all over our floor.
Yesterday we went out to Steveston at nine–early, but not exactly crack of dawn–and caught a Vancouver Whale Watch tour along the 7km jetty to see the young male sea lions, both Steller and California varieties, who hang out there at this time of year. According to our guide, these handsome young bachelors come to the Fraser River Estuary to bulk up on salmon, hoping to bulk up so they can eventually challenge some big daddy lion for a harem.
This is the sort of thing that may conjure up an image of seals pumping iron, no? But of course the reality looks a lot more relaxing:
It was a ninety minute boat ride, in a covered boat, and there had to be about fifty bald eagles on the route. Most of them were immature–it takes five years for an eagle to grow into that snow-white head! I rather adored that the sea lions were hanging out peaceably with double-breasted cormorants and the occasional gull.
Afterward, we walked along the wharf, checking out fish for sale out of the backs of boats… including sea urchins!
And then we went to the Tapenade Grill for lunch.
There is (barely) a writing-related point to this post, which is as follows: It’s Friday morning: do you know where your characters are? Do you know as much about your protagonist as I know about my cat?
1. Rumble is willing to pretend to follow a small but fixed number of rules. Since we have been strictly enforcing the ‘no jumping on Minnow’ rule, he has decided he is no longer banned from the kitchen.
2. The one commercially available toy that Rumble will always play with is the Silly Kitty hemp mouse, which, according to Sophie’s Pet Palace, is about to be unavailable forever.
3. Rumble was named for the very loud kitten purr that we almost never hear anymore; as an adult, his purr is very grunty.
4. But once, late at night a couple years ago, I woke and he was doing it, purring like a motorboat between our sleeping heads.
5. When we got back from Alberta after the worst of the family funerals, he slept, for one night, with his cheek on mine.
6. There are three identical hairbrushes in my house. Two are mine and one is Rum’s. If he sees me brushing my hair, he looks beseechingly at me and meows and meows and meows.
7. If Kelly is braiding my hair, he’ll sit up on a stool in front of me so I can simo-brush him. He will get up on the stool if he sees us fetching hair elastics. He will come running if I bang the hairbrush on the stool.
8. Rumble will often come if we call Minnow’s name. Because why should she get any love? (I think you can guess what happens if we call his name.)
9. Sometimes if we’ve both been gone awhile and have come home, he’ll forget we’re back, and go to the door and cry for us.
10. He loves David Attenborough’s The Life of Birds and will always come check out what’s on the toob when he hears Sir David’s voice.
11. He can’t count to ten and probably doesn’t want to know ten things about your pet, but I might.
12. Even when he is hogging my office chair, he is pretty photogenic.
I have been working on a few fiction projects at once these past few weeks: drafting one book, thinking about another, and poking away at a quartet of stories. I prefer to sink a little more deeply into one thing, but I have been playing around a lot these past couple of weeks, even with my fiction time.
(Fooling around at this point in my life seems to include playing with WordPress, which is how I ended up loading the new theme for my site. Very Indigo Springs / Blue Magic appropriate, I think! Well… blue, anyway.)
The reason for the playing around was that Kelly and I were loafing as much as was possible, because she’s changing to a new job and we don’t know yet–but will soon!–how it affects our vacation plans further down the road. And next week I am not doing the mentoring gig at all, though I am doing some other teaching and will still get up and write fiction, perhaps in a less random fashion.
That makes this the week where I catch up everything I neglected last week, and get ahead on everything I plan to neglect next. I knocked two big tasks off the mountain today, and hope to seriously dent another tomorrow.
I have over the past few years become something of an artifical stench-hater, so it’s sad to report that I was at a work site this week and my coat fell afoul of a lurking puddle of disgustingly scented soap. I had thought it was just the heavy winter coat, but my fleece is redolent with it too. It smells like baby powder laced with decaying rose petals and I am quite thoroughly revolted by it. I plan to run the fleece through the washing machine ASAP and trot the heavy coat to the cleaners.
Until that happens, my short-term solution is to go outside in the hopes that fresh air will scrape off the stench cooties, or at least that the sights of spring will distract me from the miasma.