I Wanted To Write

I wanted

to write a book that would tear your insides apart with laughter, not heartbreak.
to write tiny bites of my life with enough humor to leave my readers with howling belly aches over exaggerated blimps and bleeps.
to write the best selling memoir full of wit and wisdom, one that would live on the nightstand of every parent on this earth who might need a quick dose of humor following a particularly harrowing day.
to write with a keen sense of humor to keep my readers turning the pages (or swiping their Kindles) to the very last word.
to write the takeaways that would lead to joyful resolution for all who read my words.

Meanwhile I have

written the necessary 90,000 words of a pitiful and shitty first draft (ala Anne Lamott), just to get over it.
highlighted the questionabull, deleted the distractabull, rewritten the sustainabull, and added the conceivabull.
hit the muddy middle and squirreled away at least sixty hours of mindless FaceBook gaming in the last thirty days.

The time has come

to send away the critics and bring in the clowns.
to let go of the past.
to write that final chapter.

If nothing else comes of this

I can say I wrote a book
My inner self will be sufficiently mended.
I can be a better person.
I still have a sense of humor.

BUT maybe one day I’ll sit at the Algonquin table in Dorothy Parker’s mink coat signing copies of my phenomenal book.

Foiled Again

After 374 sleepless nights I have discovered it really is true that cats hate foil. The “nameless one,” has stopped climbing the blinds since I redecorated my bedroom with one full box of foil.

Several months ago I discovered scat mats. Cats hate electrical shocks. The “nameless one” has stopped rattling my closet doors since five foot scat mats guard each door.

So, I’m getting smarter in my old age. But now I must wear a sleep mask to avoid the glare of morning sun on foil and slippers lest I forget about the scat mat when choosing my morning attire.

The nameless one was such an sweet tiny thing, black with a sprinkling of gray, a quiet meow and a kinky tail. She begged to come home with us. My intuition was lost in the sorrowful gaze of this poor abandoned kitten. She crossed impenetrable boundaries and leaped into my arms. I’ll admit it – she has provided plenty of distractions from the serious side of life – but there needs to be a bit more balance. Which brings me to why she is called “the nameless one.”

After posting frequent exhibits of her behavior on Facebook for the last year, no one has been able to come up with a suitable name. There were great ideas – everything from Amber to Zelda. A couple of days ago I wanted to name her “Eve” after an “Eve of Destruction” (note the tattered edges of the blinds). She has been addressed as Shadow, Samantha, Mystic, Storm, Superwoman, Sabrina and many other names. She won’t answer to any except at dinner time. Then you can call her anything you please.

Next issue – the Nameless One has been thinking outside of the box. Ideas other than spraying my pillowcase with essence of lavender every night?

Kyrielle

Today I veer from the normal

With twisted words of what I know

One beginning never ending

I never could write poetry

Twas looking to find a k word

Something to do with writing this

Hit or miss this is what I found

I never could write poetry

C’est la vie I say as I write

Kyrielle is French but I am not

I never could write poetry