When a cat takes a bath, she can leisurely groom for hours, soaking up the bit of sunlight she's sitting in. All is right with the world. Other times, it's a vigorous race to clean the beans as quickly as a kitty can. What prompts such different behaviors to the same daily task?
That same question could be asked of writing. There are times when I write that it feels almost effortless. I'm relaxed and sitting in my own sunlight. Mind you, that's not often though. Other times, I have so much in my head I want to spill over into the keyboard that my fingers can't keep up with my thoughts. I forge ahead with typos and grammatical errors just to get the essence of the scene down.
Most of the time, I'm like the cat who, in mid-lick of her leg, stares out into nothingness for a solid 2 minutes. She may blink a few times, but mostly there is just dead air behind those round, transfixed eyes.
That's my mode 90 percent of the time. Sitting, waiting for inspiration. Not necessarily thinking of a particular scene. More like, feeling into a particular scene but not sure where to go with it.
Why do some cats and writers behave this way? I'll never know. But I do know that writing is like a cat bath - sometimes it comes easy, other times it's a frenzy of disjointed ideas, and then most of the time, at least for me, it happens between the buzzing tones in my head.
(Pictured above is Linda Hamm who, after playing in the Amazon box for hours, takes a bath time break.)
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