I meant to do that

October 25, 2006

I’ve been busy. Just a bit. Turns out, if you want to write for a living, you actually have to do write for a living. I was looking for something a little more sedate in a writing career. Seems to me, Tennessee Williams and Truman Capote and Hemmingway had a lot more time for smoking, drinking, and deep sea fishing.

Of course, none of them wrote romance.

The book I swear I just finished came back from the copy edits before I even got the advance check. This means I had 2 weeks to re-read my work, make any changes and ship them off to the editor.

There is interest in me trying to write a contemporary, for the MX line (which is in England only, I think) so I was researching that and writing a proposal: a quick three chapters to give the editors a feel for the book.

And there was a certain amount of time spent, googling myself and my book, and watching my Amazon number go up and down. So, I’m shallow. Sue me.

And there is that third historical I’ve been writing.
And the writer’s retreat I went on last weekend.
And did I mention, I still have a job?

Generally, I’m a little behind. And, out of groceries, as I go in for 2 more days of work, and my kids stay home on their 4 day school’s-out weekend.

In theory, they should be able to find something to eat, tomorrow. The freezer is full, almost to overflowing, with frozen meat, fruit and veg. I’ve taught the kids to cook. There are no excuses. They should not starve. Unless they are obsessed with the idea of a nice salad, or maybe a lunchmeat sandwich with cheese. Then they are SOL.

Of course, the cats do not cook. They are not amused. The dish is empty, and they are almost 24 hours from catfood (I’ll shop after work) unless I get in the car right now.

Not happenin’ kitties.

But of course, I feel sorry for them. I searched for a substitute. we are out of Kraft Singles. We are out of canned tuna. They do not like canned dog food, I tried. There are mice in the yard. but what if it’s a slow night? They’ll eat my goldfish out of spite.

I checked the fridge. There was one thing I that just might work. Left over from last week’s writing retreat. My favorite writing food: a small bowl of tail-on, cooked shrimp.

No, I am not feeding fresh shrimp to barn cats. This would imply that there is a lot more money in writing then there actually is. (And some major advantages to being a housepet at casa dos quesos).

I am feeding old shrimp to barn cats. I started these things on Saturday, in a hotel room 2 hours North of here. I did not thoroughly refrigerate them on the ride home, unless you count dumping the ice from my Big Buddie soda cup onto them. Personally, I don’t. In a world where you can die from spinach, there are probably some serious repercussions to mistreating seafood.

So, I’ve got some dubious shrimp that were headed out with tomorrow’s trash. And 2 cats that prefer their dead mice to be lightly aged. I don’t think they’ll die.

Since presentation is everything, I arranged them in a circle on Fiesta-ware. There was no cocktail sauce, although I did consider going out to get a sprig of cat mint for the center.

Fluffer just sang me her “Touch this and die, I’m eating” song. I think we have a winner.