The alarm goes off at 3 a.m., as usual. Soda, one of our two cats, starts by rubbing her paws rapidly against the side of the bed. When that fails, she presses the pads of her front paws into the little openings in the caning of the headboard. By pushing and pulling, she turns it into a kind of percussion instrument. If that doesn't work, she beats me on the face with a paw. At that point, she's furious.
I get up and feed her. Then, at 7 a.m., I get up again and attend to the six cats in the backyard. These are strays that my wife and I inherited when a cat-loving neighbor moved and the free lunch came to an end for a roving colony of felines. Many thousands of dollars in vet bills later, Nancy and I have created a cat paradise in the backyard, complete with a big plastic igloo and an insulated dog cottage.
The now-neutered cats assemble at the backdoor around 6:45 a.m. My appearance triggers mass jubilation. I feed them, then return in my role as social director, giving them a half-hour workout with a kind of fishing pole to which Nancy attached two little red pompoms. The bouncing balls send them into a frenzy, and if all six cats get going at once, kitty gridlock can result. After a good session of wind sprints, they settle down, and I can start my day.The holidays have played havoc with my schedule. Normally I do most of my writing on Friday, but this week I start Monday like most other people, with a sickening feeling in the pit of my stomach. I have never experienced writer's block. I write quickly. I've never been stuck for a lead. But I still experience the queasy feeling that most writers know all too well when faced with a blank piece of paper. The night before I have to write, I feel anxious and peevish. I can't really concentrate. This only gets worse with time. I read somewhere that neuroses only intensify with age, in the same way that nuts tend to tighten on a car wheel as its spins. It's true.
Slate, December 18, 2001
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