When a writer’s muse mews, it’s time to get down to business
“We started this book together, and I’m not going to let you finish it without me,” Lark kitty said from the furry white bed I’d placed next to my desk.
This was the first time she was not actually on the desk while I was writing, but she wasn’t going to allow a bout of ill-health to keep her from being my muse.
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Why? I’ve been bouncing ideas off her since the day I started my memoir.
Lark: “Let’s get to work. Have you had other cats? I don’t see any mention of that in your book.”
Me: “Scarlett O’Hara, an eccentric Siamese cat with one blue eye, and one green eye lived with me in my Greenwich Village apartment.”
Lark: “Strange name for a cat.”
Me: She was named for a movie character that I admired. I wrote a poem about her called “Flight of Scarlbird” and that became what my friends and I called her. She would hang from the top of the entry hall closet and scare people as they walked through the front door.”
Lark: “I’ll have to try that.”
Me: “Please don’t. It tends to discourage friendships.”
Lark: “So you left her behind when you moved to California?”
Me: “I gave her to a friend who I knew would take good care of her. I couldn’t take her with me on a cross-country ride in a Volkswagen Bus, especially since I had no idea where I was going to live once I got to the West Coast.”
Lark: “You just jumped in a van and drove off into the sunset?”
Me: “Not exactly. I jumped on a plane and flew to Chicago where I met up with a friend who had just bought the car in Germany and was driving it home to California.”
Lark: “So he was a good friend?”
Me: “Although we had no idea at the time, he would become my first husband.”
Lark: “What?”
Me: “Through a mutual friend, I had sublet my apartment to him when I went to Montreal for the summer. We met when I got back and stayed in touch. It was just one of those things.”
Lark: “What things?”
Me: “You’ll have to read the book for the rest of the story.”
Lark: “What were you doing in Montreal?
Me: “Writing poetry and learning about Canadian writers.”
Lark: “You just took off one day for Montreal? There seems to be a pattern here.”
Me: “Yes, I tended to do that.”
Lark: “How about George? When did he come into the picture?”
Me: “That’s all in my book.”
Lark: “What’s it called?”
Me: “A Lopsided Little Memoir”
With that, Lark surprised me by jumping up on my desk.
I guess we will finish the book together after all.
Author note: Lark left us a few days after this column was written.
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