I admit it. I don’t write my books by myself. I have an unnamed co-conspirator coauthor, one who never appears on the copyright page, who never gets any credit, and who generally goes unappreciated by everyone. Except me, of course.
Who is this mysterious, unacknowledged person?
Tinkerbell. Yup. My kitty. Who is, I should add, not so much a kitty any more since she’ll be 14 on her birthday in late April. (In case you’re adding, that’s about the equivalent of 72 years old in people-years. The formula is: 12 people years for each of the first 2 cat years, plus 4 people years for every cat year thereafter. That’s a more accurate version than the usual 7 people years for each cat year that most people quote. So…in Tink’s case: 24 years, plus 12 years times 4, or 24+48, which is 72 years. HIgher math. Yeah, I know. Suck it up, folks!)
Where was I?
Oh, yes. Tink, like many cats, has a superior sense of How Things Should Be, and she has no qualms about letting me know her opinions. In fact, she’s probably the noisiest cat I’ve ever seen. See, she’s a Tonkinese, and that’s a breed that was created by combining the Siamese and the Burmese. Which, if you’re a maven of cat breeds, you would know are reportedly the two most “talkative” cat breeds around.
Except, of course, for Tink, who gets her talker tendencies from both sides of her genetic family. She talks. A lot. She’s been known to yell at me until I pick up the phone and call one of her favorite people (you know who you are!) and then, when I put the phone on speaker, she holds long conversations with the person called, asking questions, responding to them, complaining about her poor minion support (that would be me), and generally venting whatever she feels like venting. When she’s done, and usually ending with a few head-butts and kitty-kisses to her conversational partner, she then allows me to speak to the person she had me call–presumably, I believe, for them to chastise me on Why Can’t You Do Things The Way She Wants You To Do Them?
Co-conspirator assisting with my writing.
TInk also has a superior sense of story and character, and often curls up right on top of my mouse pad. Mostly because that’s the place where my laptop vents hot air, making it a warm, cozy spot. Not so cozy for me, in terms of being able to use the mouse, of course. And when she lays her head across the keyboard to better see what I’m typing . . . well, as you can imagine, it gets challenging. Which is, most likely, her point. No doubt she’s also saying, “Pay attention to me! I need brushies! I need hugs! I need petting! I need more better nummies in my bowl! And exactly when are you planning to clean my litter box???”
Russian blues are sweet, sensitive, and very smart. They also love blinky-flashy computer stuff
But she’s not as much a co-author as a previous kitty I had. Jezebel was fascinated by computers and simply loved to play with them. Whenever I started typing on the keyboard, she’d put her little paws underneath my hands (she was barely 6 lbs–a very small Russian Blue cat). And then she’d start typing too. So I’d have these really . . . unusual . . . spellings. Honestly. It wasn’t my fault. She was simply inserting her perspective into my text. it also didn’t help that her big brother, Sammy–a literal big brother from the same parents but different litter–knew how to turn on my Mac desktop. (I watched him do it.) So whenever his beloved little sister wanted to play on the computer . . . well . . . you understand, I’m sure.
That may also explain some mysterious Amazon one-click orders that occasionally showed up at the house . . . kitty toys, kitty videos, kitty supplies . . .
So anyway, when you read anything I’ve written, just know that there is another silent contributor to the text. And any spelling mistakes are simply the result of that collaboration.
Do you have any “helpers” when you write? Tell me about them!
