Cat Tail

writing about not knowing what to write

That incessant flashing line on the screen is enough to drive a writer mad. What are you going to say next? It asks. And asks again. And again. It pesters. What am I going to write next? It’s hard to say with a cursor on a computer screen rushing you. I click off the page, but it doesn’t stop. What are you going to say next? How are you going to follow your last sentence? Do you know where all this is leading?

I type.

“You’re a regular Shakespeare, aren’t you?”

The room is dark except for the light radiating from the screen in front of me.

Well what is it? Cat got your tongue? Er uh, finger?”

Cat.

There was a scuffle at the door and it started to crack open, just slightly.

“Look what the cat dragged in.”

Cat.

I type.

“I don’t think he’s got it anymore.”

At the bottom of the door a quick, black figure scurried into the room from the amber lit hallway. The door latched shut again. It was closed already, but the visitor had sense enough to open it and come inside.

“Maybe you can give him some inspiration.”

I’d seen the door open just from the corner of my eye, but I kept my attention on the screen. A gentle pattering sound danced around the room at all angles.

“What about the cat?” It was a different voice. Unfamiliar and deep.

“What about the cat? What’s so interesting about a cat?”

“I don’t appreciate that.” The strange voice.

I was unsure if I’d been blinking at all. I never took notice if so. I can feel my eyes glazed over with fatigue, almost to the point of tears.

I read.

The cat.

“It’s a moving piece, isn’t it?”

“Perhaps.” The strange voice. “It’s lacking… Something. Something special.”

My fingertips were glued to the keyboard but didn’t move. The pattering found its way beneath my chair, and I felt a soft and gentle appendage brush against my calf.

“It could be interesting.” The strange voice.

“Nah, he’s lost it.”

The presence felt benign as it glided over a greater surface of my legs.

“You can’t rush it.” The strange voice.

I felt more soft fur akin to the appendage, but resting atop one of my bare feet. It was soothing. The appendage only made sporadic jumps, remaining calm for the most part.

“A cat’s tail is not like a dog’s tail.” The strange voice. “A wagging cat tail often spells annoyance or even anger. Otherwise, it keeps its movement fluid and deliberate. A dog wags its tail when it is happy or excited. Of course, all that said, it is more complicated to determine a cat’s mindset just from its tail.”

The appendage would slide over my feet, then pause, then repeat.

“You’re a big help.”

“Aren’t I?” The strange voice.

I typed.

“More than you.” The strange voice.

I felt a weight rise from upon my foot and the pattering began again. I didn’t take my focus off the screen. What was it about blinking? I don’t think I can anymore. Not until it’s finished. I can’t do anything until it’s finished. I can’t sleep, I can’t even breathe.

“I’m glad I’m not the writer. It’s simple being the written.”

“You are not the written.” The strange voice. “You are what is to be written. But you don’t exist without a project.”

“He’ll never finish.”

“You can only hope.” The strange voice.

The pattering sound halted once again, before there came an even greater sound, not unlike that pattering, but fuller, and only for an instant. All the noise began once more, closer to my ears.

“You don’t want to get in his way, do you?”

“Shouldn’t you hope that I did?” The strange voice. “So what makes a great story? I believe it is anticipation. Well, that sounds a bit obvious, but no less true. The reader should be in a constant state of anticipation. And of course, this is why they continue reading.”

I read.

The cat tail.

“And anticipation stems from the unknown.” The strange voice.

“I’m anticipating a load of s**t. The cat tail?”

The cat tail.

“It doesn’t quite matter what you’re anticipating.” The strange voice. “It will always be something different.”

“Oh is that right, Mr. Cat Tail?”

I still didn’t look away from the screen. I couldn’t if I tried. I’ve lost all sense of reason. Only I can save myself, no, only my work can save me. I must continue. It is all that I have left, all that can carry on my spirit. It is all that I am.

“He’s totally washed up. He’s a hack. What’re you writing for anyway?”

To survive.

The soft furred appendage I had felt before running smoothly over my feet was now present on top of my desk. I felt it now, making its acquaintance with my forearm, gentle as it was. Soft and inviting.

“The behavior of a cat’s tail does differ from cat to cat, however.” The strange voice. “Some despise contact, some find it pleasing.

Blurred by the glare of the computer screen, or perhaps simply these tired eyes, a slender, worm-like silhouette crept from the darkness of my peripheral vision and hung before me, suspended by its own will. It moved gracefully, like the dancers in a ballet. Each step seemed choreographed to seduce me. It was beautiful, enticing, and even menacing all at once. Menacing in its seamless and delicate motion, dancing unlike anything of this world, at least known to me.

“Haven’t you seen a cat before?”

I read.

The cat tail.

The cat.

Tail.

“Surely you feel that anticipation?” The strange voice. “This is what the reader must feel. But it isn’t something ever present. It is up to you to summon… The anticipation.”

“Eh, he’s got nothing.”

The cat tail.

“What…” The strange voice. “Are you anticipating?”

The silhouette remained before me, keeping its movement sparse and hypnotic. The cursor on the screen flashed.

I read.

The cat tail.

My fingers are cemented to the keys. I can feel it inside, I’m getting closer. But I don’t know what it is. Just that I’m getting closer. The silhouette dropped from the air and rested across my wrists. It was calming in a peculiar way.

“You aren’t a threat.” The strange voice. “Do you find me to be a threat?”

The silhouette flickered like a startled animal, startled in its movement only. I knew it didn’t feel any fear. I can’t say the same for myself. All I feel is uncertainty. A deeply haunting ambiguity, rising from the darkness and the strange voice. From the blinking slash at the end of three typed out on a screen. And…

I read.

The cat tail.

It was certain.

The cat tail.

The words were right in front of me. Solid, unmistakable.

The cat tail.

The cat tail was sure.

The cat tail was true.

The cat tail was here.

“You can tell a lot about a cat from its tail.” The strange voice. “That is, if you can understand it. And it isn’t always easy, as I said before.”

“You’d be better off talking to a book of riddles.”

“I’m the only reason he’s come this far.” The strange voice.

“Well it’s an easy read at least. Minimalistic.”

The cat tail.

“Don’t be so daft.” The strange voice. “There is much to be read, whether or not it is written.”

“Who let you in here anyway?”

“Anticipation.” The strange voice.

Slowly, the presence resting upon my wrists slipped out of sight, back into the darkness. Now the pattering would resume. It was still close. Still on top of the desk.

“But when a cat purrs…” The strange voice. “It is easy to understand.”

But it was silent, aside from the pattering and the voices of my guests. My peers. My colleagues.

“A cat’s purr doesn’t necessarily mean that it is content or comfortable,” The strange voice. “A cat purrs for a number of reasons. When it is frightened or threatened, when they are hurt, or when it is in the best range to attack. It doesn’t mean it will, often times it doesn’t. But it knows that this is its best opportunity, when you let your guard down to hold the cat in your arms or curl up in your lap.”

There was no purring.

The.

Cat.

Tail.

The.

Cat.

My fingers began to twitch, but I keep them in contact with the keys.

“Anticipation.” The strange voice.

Anticipation.

“You’re gonna give the poor guy a damn panic attack.”

Anticipation.

Even as heavy as my eyelids are, they seemed stuck open. My eyes are dry and searing. The twitching intensifies and my heartbeat accelerates.

And still, the cat tail is sure.

“Are you anxious?” The strange voice.

“Of course he is. All your meaningless cat talk. He’s losing focus, just look at the screen. This cat tail has nothing to do with what he’s meaning to write.”

“I thought you said he didn’t have any ideas?” The strange voice.

“You can say that again.”

“I am his muse.” The strange voice.

My jaw is clenching uncontrollably.

“Then quit pussyfooting around. Heh.”

“Anticipation.” The strange voice.

The cat tail.

“No!” I scream out loud to expel some of the increasing tension before my entire body starts seizing up.

“Shut up!” I shout again.

“Look what you’re doing to him.”

“Leave me alone! Please! I must work!”

“You can’t work without me.” The strange voice. “You’re so close, and you couldn’t see it without me. You never did tell me before, what are you anticipating? Is the anticipation strong? You must make your readers feel the way you do now, and your story will become a revelation.”

The cat tail.

The cat tail.The cat tail.The cat tail.The cat tail.The cat tail.The cat tail.The cat tail.The cat tail.The cat tail.The cat tail.The cat tail.The cat tail.The cat tail.The cat tail.The cat tail.The cat tail.The cat tail.The cat tail.The cat tail.The cat tail.The cat tail.The cat tail.The cat tail.The cat tail.The cat tail.The cat tail.The cat tail.The cat tail.The cat tail.

Now my fingers are jerking about erratically.

“This is my work!”

“Is it?” The strange voice. “But the cat tail is mine.” The cat tail. “Do you think your readers should always encounter something they’ve already been anticipating? That’s no fun, is it?”

From the darkness at the edge of my vision stepped the furry paw of a mammal.

The cat tail.

A second paw stepped into the light.

The cat tail.

The claws of the animal were visible, protruding from its toes. It stood with authority. Scruffy and short brown fur climbed up from the paws. Noticeable on the backside of its legs, about two inches up from its feet, were a pair of smaller, clawless appendages.

The cat…

“Make your readers feel your insurmountable anticipation.” The strange voice. “Then comes the zenith, the point where they almost start to feel as if they are going mad from sheer anticipation.”

Cattailcattailcattailcattailcattailcattailcattail.

“You can’t change what anticipation will do to yourself, however.” The strange voice.

The entire animal stepped into the light for me to see. It was positively canine, looking like a shrunken version of a bloodhound, small enough to stand on all fours upon the surface of my desk.

Dog.

The cat tail.

The dog.

From its hind extended that thin and familiar appendage. It danced just like I’d seen before, just like a cat’s tail. My vision begins to fade into a cold white static, and I can no longer contain my movements at all. My fingers pound the same keys violently. The slash is nowhere to be seen as my furied typing grows constant. Five new characters meander to the end of the sentence. The cat tail.

I type.

The cat tailed dog.

The cat tailed dog. The cat tailed dog. The cat tailed dog. The cat tailed dog. The cat tailed dog. The cat tailed dog. The cat tailed dog. The cat tailed dog. The cat tailed dog. The cat tailed dog. The cat tailed dog. The cat tailed dog. The cat tailed dog. The cat tailed dog. The cat tailed dog. The cat tailed dog. The cat tailed dog. The cat tailed dog. The cat tailed dog.

Endlessly until I fall from my chair and hit the floor like an epileptic.

“Yes.” The strange voice. “This is it. A deeply personal piece. Surely your readers will see you as you truly are through this work.”

The cat tailed dog.

*****

There is a new voice that booms and echoes as if it were shouting within a massive canyon.

“His breathing and heart rate aren’t irregular, but it seems like he’s catatonic. No blinking, no sound. He can’t even close his mouth. He’s just been lying there with his head in a growing puddle of drool.

“What happened here?” Another voice.

“I have no idea. Look at his computer, page after page of this. Over and over, the cat tailed dog, nothing else.”

“Perhaps he’s comatose, but… Well I’m no doctor. I haven’t the slightest clue what could have caused this.”

“Call in an ambulance. I’d be interested in hearing a diagnosis. Though I imagine he’s more in need of psychiatric assistance. These are the last words of a mad man.”

“No.” The voice of the cat tailed dog, sitting upon my chest, its tail swaying gently. “These are the words of an artist.”