The next cycle starts in ten minutes, at nine. It's cool and overcast outside. I set up to join the writing session. I get everything ready on our deck outside: the supporting pillows on the wide, outside sectional; the sunbrella set up to block the overcast sun; the tripod desk tilted up against the sectional so it could suspend the laptop over my knees; the wireless keyboard and mouse at ergonomic ready; folding mini-table set with a starry tea cloth and matching starry napkin; a mondo-mug of English Breakfast tea, eggs, a slice of cheese, carrots, and dates laid out on the setting. Even Aoife the pit bull terrier curls up on one corner of the sectional, close enough for her to be at guard rest, but not pressing up against me.
It's 8:57. The laptop fires up. A Scrivener session begins. Into email for the Zoom link!
Meanwhile, Smokey our old grey cat, who had been napping on a table on the other side of the deck, smelled my breakfast cheddar, eased his rickety bones off the table, pulled himself up onto the sectional, and quested around for my breakfast. After three rounds of discouragement, his claws got stuck on the tablecloth and he upset the tea mug: tea overflowed the saucer, drenched the tablecloth, and cascaded onto my lap.
Just as I'm about to click the JOIN button for the Zoom meeting.
A sullen cat, table linens and pants in cold water to soak out the black tea stains, tepid tea, and twenty minutes later, I pull together pillows and blankets and return to Zoom. Zoom is confused and dropped the meeting, which requires restarting it.
The timed session is half-over; other writers are muted or have their screens off while they industriously churn out words. I'm too wound up to work on the (too many) fantasy short stories I've got floating around, and I end up writing instead about the experience of not-writing until the host chimes the end of this session.
I'm not sure why writers are supposed to have cats.
