There’s things I can’t blog about. Stories I can’t tell. Sometimes I can’t tell them because they aren’t mine. Sometimes they are PART-mine, but if it isn’t mine outright, I do not tell the story. I try not to even refer to the stories.
The upshot is, last year I blogged very little, and when I did, I blogged about …
the extremely loud and incredibly close cat vomit festival that woke us up around 2 am. Let us set the stage. Our bedroom is ALL hardwood floors, with a single, tiny, rectangle of carpet that is mostly there to give the dogs traction so they can jump onto the bed. Maybe 2 square feet of carpet in the WHOLE LARGE MASTER BEDROOM.
Guess where the cat chose to rid himself of his hairball?
I rolled to Scott and said, What are geneticists even DOING? With their LIVES? Cloning sheep? PLEASE. Why can’t they invent a cat who will puke on HARDWOODS?
Scott: That’s not genetic. It isn’t comfortable to stand on the cold floor, puking.
Me: Then they should make cats who are smart enough to stand on the carpet and hang their heads OVER the hardwoods and just PUKE there, with their feet all comfy.
Scott: That’s not really what geneticists do.
Me: WELL, THEY SHOULD.
Scott: It would be better if they made a cat with four stomachs, like a cow. Then cats could just puke internally, from one stomach to the next.
Then I laughed until I wept. Then we cleaned the carpet. And by We I mean Scott, because he is noble and great and does not sympathy puke when he has to dispose of expunged biological matter and its vile effluvium.
And perhaps even this is an overshare? Our young assistant pastor was all flustered because I said on this blog that Scott is a good kisser.
(Ya’ll, he SO is. And nineteen years into the marriage, why is it embarrassing or surprising for young people to hear it? BE GLAD, YOUNG PEOPLE! Be GLAD it is possible to still like kissing your best guy, yea verily, these two decades later.)
This is why being a novelist is SO GREAT, because I can tell ANY STORY I WANT. I don’t mean this in the Anne Lamott way of exboyfriends. To paraphrase, Lamott says you can put any old exboyfriend you want, very recognizeably and with extreme cruelty into a novel, and he will NEVER NEVER call you on it, so long as you explicitly state what a small penis the character has. No guy will admit it’s him, not even just long enough to sue you.
And yes, I have had tempty moments when RAGE happened. It was extremely—OH SO EXTREMELY—tempty, to make Coach or Claire Richardson (characters in GROWN UP KIND OF PRETTY) look like My Mortal Enemy. (Remember Her or Him? Well, my Mortal Enemy looks NOTHING like a Richardson. *clears throat.*
Because I edited.
I edited because it was LOW, and it FELT GOOD in that awful itchy way being LOW can make you feel. SO good. Bleh. OH, IT IS HARD NOT TO BE LOW. To NOT put the jab in. Sometimes I fail and am low. But not that one time. So. Celebrate the little victories, yes?
This last year I have had so many stories happen, things I want to write about in a literal way, but can’t. There have been brush fires and implosions in the high grass. Things happen, but I do not wholly own them. SO these things—- I put them in a compost pile. It is all rotting away into sludge, and then later, I’ll write about what grows out of that sludge. It;s how the books come. It is where they come from. By then, the people who were witnesses to the actual event, they almost never make the connection. Because it is SO FAR from literal. I can see it — clearly, because at the thematic heart, it is the same story. I write about love failing, kindness failing, hope failing. I wrote about how we come back from that, or don’t.
Sure I put lines and sayings and images and moments that “real” or from memory into books. Of course I do. But the lowdown things that matter—other people’s secrets, where they intersect my own…There’s a 5 – 20 year gap between the event and my ability write about it.
I won’t write in ANY literal way what I don’t own,and I own so few things outright, recently. SO it just has to go be composted. SO this has been the year of blog infrequently. Mostly about Cat Vomit.
Look, a picture of Mango, meticulously foot-grooming, reloading his hairball-cannon second stomach! How shiny. How shiny he is!