I’ve neglected my blog somewhat. Not without good reason, I’m a new father. It’s been a thick-loved remolding experience and there’s been bliss in every moment. I’ve wanted to write about it, but find myself afraid to give it words. None couldn’t live up, like photographing the moon. I’ve decided to live in it first, and leave the writing for later.
The things of myself I put into stories tend to come after a period of processing. It is, in fact, part of how I reflect on my life. Losing loved ones, finding new and beautiful reasons to hope, dealing with disappointment, holding light to beauty, it all makes its way into the things I write at some point. Not before I’ve had a chance to live in it, however, so fatherhood will have to wait for a spell. I will say this, I feel as though I was born to be his father.
I’ve written a story and sent it off. Needing something that I could get to the end of (novel work is going great though!) I dug up an old unfinished one about a ghost trying to convince his cat not to eat his corpse. I couldn’t find the right tone for it. As is often the case, sleep deprivation loosened me up. I like where this story landed, and once I found the right voice for it, and added a few other things I felt like dealing with, the tale unfolded quickly. It’s a sad, gruesome, and darkly funny one. A story for Halloween. It’s called “Sheba is Hungry” and it confirmed what I’ve long suspected; I love writing about cats.
My parents have unwaveringly maintained that I spoke my first word at three months old. Stony faced, they claim that every time our cat entered the room, I would say “Kitty” and grab for him. His name was Motor and the black sheen of his fur was so dark it looks blue in the high contrast ’80s family photos he shows up in. He was, apparently, my favorite thing. I don’t remember Motor, I was too young when he died. I know that he earned his name by purring so loudly he sounded like a running motor. And I remember his little sister, Penny. She was not as loud when she purred, hers was soft and ceaseless. When she was taken for vet checkups they couldn’t get her to stop purring long enough to get her heartbeat. She would sit on your lap and purr for as long as you left her there, a warm, vibrating dot. I loved her dearly. It was Penny who introduced me to the pain of losing a pet. I’ve called many cats pets in my 42 years, all of them black, and each were unique, delightful friends. They carved their way into many core memories, except Motor, who inspired my first word. So I dedicate “Sheba is Hungry” to Motor. Thank you kitty.
M. W. IRVING 