on the subject of writing
I wrote the profile for this comm over a decade ago. It mentions that I've been (infrequently) writing since I was young- and that's true. Or perhaps it's better to say it was true. I wrote a smattering of original fiction when I was around 8, then jumped in and out of fanfiction from my early teens through my early twenties.
And then I just... stopped.
I don't remember the last time I wrote anything- fictional, that is, or perhaps "prose" is more appropriate. The last year or two I've kept (infrequent) journal entries and dream journal logs, all analogue, but I can't remember the last time I sat down to put into word something I consciously created, however short.
That makes me a little sad, I guess. I went through my older entries here and I still like them, for the most part. Most of them aren't particularly good, but wording, turns of phrase... a lot of it still sits right with me. I think "pride" is too strong an emotion to ascribe here, but... perhaps "satisfaction" will do.
I'd like to feel that again.
So here's 500+ words and some horrific abuse of punctuation about my cats. Gotta start somewhere.
...
He lays there, tail curled around his back legs, one huge paw dangling over the edge of the cushioned stool. He’s on the larger side, as far as cats go, but still small, so very small and delicate and too precious for this world. His eyes are closed, his face relaxed into something that could easily be described as serene, content. Perhaps serenely content.
His sister (not the oldest, the scared, angry one; or the younger one that is much larger than him and also a dog; but the sassy one, the cuddlebug who is prickly with her siblings but will sometimes tolerate Zach’s clumsy attempts at friendship which are somehow both shy and determined) dashing by interrupts his repose briefly; his eyes flicker open to glance at the disturbance, then close again as he tucks his front paws (still huge, he definitely grew into them some but they are still overly large and his dewclaws are long and viciously sharp and sometimes when he is feeling particularly cuddly these claws dig in, painfully, as he captures my hand, claims it for his own, pulls it back it to his forehead, his cheeks, his chin; he is gentle with his movements but it hurts nonetheless, he doesn’t understand that he’s hurting me but it’s fine, it’s bearable, it’s Zach and he is my perfect gentle giant, my sweet loving baby, and I will tolerate any amount of pain he unwittingly causes me because he deserves all that and more, he deserves the world and it breaks my heart that I cannot give him that) under his head.
The spell is broken a minute later as he stands, jumps gently to the floor, and trots off. Katie (the sassy cuddlebug, the fusspot who insists on being near me at all times, who sleeps next to my pillow at every opportunity, whose own tiny, delicate paws reach out at me lovingly when she is sleeping in the drawer in my desk that was immediately designated the Katie Drawer when she first discovered it several years ago) steals his seat shortly; she spends several minutes grooming herself, long legs with their dainty paws stretched out as her rough tongue combs through her soft, brindled fur. When she is done, she tucks herself into the same curled, cozy position her brother (not the youngest, who started out brash and fearless but after several years in the sometimes-hostile environment created by his oldest sister- the scared, angry one- has become less confident, more tentative, more anxious, but simultaneously more loving, who is alone amongst his siblings in genuinely enjoying being held, who loves minty kisses; nor the smallest, the shyest, the one who loses said shyness after every meal as he zooms from room to room, enticing me to chase him and catch him and give strong, scratching pets to the base of his tail and the back of his neck; but the oldest one, still younger than her but nearly twice her size, the sibling she tolerates most, the one she occasionally initiates friendly sniffing sessions with even if half the time she ends up hissing at him anyway) had been laying in moments earlier.
Her golden eyes watch me, serenely content as I write from my seat at the table a few feet away, languidly blinking shut as she lays her cheek against the side of the chair and drifts into slumber.
And then I just... stopped.
I don't remember the last time I wrote anything- fictional, that is, or perhaps "prose" is more appropriate. The last year or two I've kept (infrequent) journal entries and dream journal logs, all analogue, but I can't remember the last time I sat down to put into word something I consciously created, however short.
That makes me a little sad, I guess. I went through my older entries here and I still like them, for the most part. Most of them aren't particularly good, but wording, turns of phrase... a lot of it still sits right with me. I think "pride" is too strong an emotion to ascribe here, but... perhaps "satisfaction" will do.
I'd like to feel that again.
So here's 500+ words and some horrific abuse of punctuation about my cats. Gotta start somewhere.
...
He lays there, tail curled around his back legs, one huge paw dangling over the edge of the cushioned stool. He’s on the larger side, as far as cats go, but still small, so very small and delicate and too precious for this world. His eyes are closed, his face relaxed into something that could easily be described as serene, content. Perhaps serenely content.
His sister (not the oldest, the scared, angry one; or the younger one that is much larger than him and also a dog; but the sassy one, the cuddlebug who is prickly with her siblings but will sometimes tolerate Zach’s clumsy attempts at friendship which are somehow both shy and determined) dashing by interrupts his repose briefly; his eyes flicker open to glance at the disturbance, then close again as he tucks his front paws (still huge, he definitely grew into them some but they are still overly large and his dewclaws are long and viciously sharp and sometimes when he is feeling particularly cuddly these claws dig in, painfully, as he captures my hand, claims it for his own, pulls it back it to his forehead, his cheeks, his chin; he is gentle with his movements but it hurts nonetheless, he doesn’t understand that he’s hurting me but it’s fine, it’s bearable, it’s Zach and he is my perfect gentle giant, my sweet loving baby, and I will tolerate any amount of pain he unwittingly causes me because he deserves all that and more, he deserves the world and it breaks my heart that I cannot give him that) under his head.
The spell is broken a minute later as he stands, jumps gently to the floor, and trots off. Katie (the sassy cuddlebug, the fusspot who insists on being near me at all times, who sleeps next to my pillow at every opportunity, whose own tiny, delicate paws reach out at me lovingly when she is sleeping in the drawer in my desk that was immediately designated the Katie Drawer when she first discovered it several years ago) steals his seat shortly; she spends several minutes grooming herself, long legs with their dainty paws stretched out as her rough tongue combs through her soft, brindled fur. When she is done, she tucks herself into the same curled, cozy position her brother (not the youngest, who started out brash and fearless but after several years in the sometimes-hostile environment created by his oldest sister- the scared, angry one- has become less confident, more tentative, more anxious, but simultaneously more loving, who is alone amongst his siblings in genuinely enjoying being held, who loves minty kisses; nor the smallest, the shyest, the one who loses said shyness after every meal as he zooms from room to room, enticing me to chase him and catch him and give strong, scratching pets to the base of his tail and the back of his neck; but the oldest one, still younger than her but nearly twice her size, the sibling she tolerates most, the one she occasionally initiates friendly sniffing sessions with even if half the time she ends up hissing at him anyway) had been laying in moments earlier.
Her golden eyes watch me, serenely content as I write from my seat at the table a few feet away, languidly blinking shut as she lays her cheek against the side of the chair and drifts into slumber.