You read it right – my cat is in love with my curling iron. Well, more accurately, my hot air brush. Most cats are afraid of loud noises, but my Charlotte adores the noisy, blowing, warm thingy that I use daily in an attempt to fluff my stick-straight hair. The second I turn on the brush, she hops on the counter and starts yowling her head off begging to be brushed with the magic warming thingamabob. She kisses it. Seriously. I catch her in the bathroom pining for the warm air when it’s not turned on. She’s totally in love with the thing. The husband says he did not sign up for psychotic cats.
Then again, there’s a lot in this marriage that he didn’t sign up for.
When we got married, Ron didn’t know I was a writer. I know, bad Cate. But I was closeted back then – writing for fun but not for profit, as it were. Never intending to do anything with it. Until I got The Idea. The Idea turned into a hidious book – horribly written, plot so full of holes it might as well be cheese, omniscient third person. All the no-nos. But The Idea led me to the Next Idea, and then the New Idea, and then The Idea That Sold – Let’s Dish. It was the fourth book I wrote, and I’d love to say I’d figured it all out by that time. I hadn’t. Still haven’t. But as I sit here at the laptop night after night, I work on my craft. And my husband stares at me like I have three heads.
When I first started writing again, he was supportive enough, but didn’t “get” it. It was my time-consuming hobby at that point. The hobby that kept me from doing dishes and laundry. But one night when I had just had it with the book, with the kids, and with the husband, I came out of the closet. I told him I was a writer and that was that. One day I was going to be published, and to do that I needed to write and figure out what I was doing. At that point, he understood. And said he couldn’t believe he’d married someone with enough talent to write a novel.
Well, who can be mad at a man who says that?
Fast-forward five years, and here I am working on my first official edit. Our pillow-talk consists of how far I’d gotten that day and if my characters were starting to cooperate. he listens along happily, and I end up apologizing for not cluing him in before I started down this whole crazy road. But now he gets it, even it is an odd existence.
So when he said he hadn’t signed on for psychotic cats, I just stared at him. I mean, the guy listens to me going off about fictional characters for hours on end but our cat’s affection for a small appliance has got him wound up? And he thinks I’m the crazy one.