There are two kinds of writers in the world: those who work in peaceful solitude and those who own cats.I belong to the second group.
My cat, Bailey, is convinced he's my editor.
Every morning, I sit down at my computer with a fresh cup of coffee, a head full of ideas, and the foolish belief that today will be productive.
Bailey has other plans.
The moment I open my manuscript, he appears. I don't know where he comes from. He could be asleep three rooms away, but somehow he hears the distinctive sound of Microsoft Word opening.
First comes the stare. He sits beside my keyboard, watching me with the expression of an editor who has just discovered I've used the word *suddenly* four times in one paragraph.
Then comes the paw.
One enormous, furry foot lands on the keyboard, transforming my carefully crafted sentence into:
*"The alien commander raised his weapon and shouted jjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjj."*
Frankly, it's better than some of my dialogue.
I gently move him aside.
He returns.
I move him again.
He returns with reinforcements, namely his entire furry body, which he deposits directly across the keyboard.
Apparently, the space bar is warm, and my manuscript needs more spaces.
I attempt to negotiate.
"Look, Bailey. I have a deadline."
He blinks.
"People are waiting for this book."
He yawns.
Clearly, my editor is unimpressed.
Eventually, I resort to bribery. I offer treats, toys, and access to the forbidden cardboard box in the hallway.
Nothing works.
Bailey has editorial concerns, and apparently they can only be addressed by sitting directly on Chapter Seventeen.
Finally, in desperation, I pick him up and put him on my lap.
He immediately falls asleep.
Victory!
Except now I can't reach the keyboard without disturbing him, and every cat owner knows that waking a sleeping cat is a violation of international law.
So I sit there, motionless, watching my coffee get cold while my protagonist remains trapped in a burning spaceship.
Three hours later, my wife asks how the writing is going.
"Great," I tell her. "I've written twelve words."
"That's all?"
"Thirteen, if you count Bailey's contribution."
She looks at the sleeping animal.
"Well, at least somebody's working hard."
And that, dear readers, is why my next novel is late.
It's not writer's block.
It's editorial interference.
**P.S.** Bailey has reviewed this blog post. He deleted two paragraphs, added seventeen pages of the letter Q, and demanded more tuna.
He also insists the ending needs work.
I disagree, but he's currently sitting on the Delete key.
So we'll see.
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