The cats are curled nonchalantly on the couch next to me. The thunder? They could give a damn. Even Pan, my boyfriend’s cat, master of the outdoors, has nothing to say on the matter. He only licks himself.
I feel like a cat. The thunder? Ha. Rain is good for the garden. I want to sleep in a puddle of fur by the window sill.
Today is submission day. I’ve gotten it into my head that one day every week or two I ought to set aside for just submitting work to various magazines. Sending all these finished stories off to markets and seeing what sticks. It’s likely a good practice. I’m likely muddling through trying to set a schedule in a way that would make a more practiced writer, a more published writer, cringe. Some days I make myself cringe.
But today I am a cat. I will approach the submission rounds with the nonchalance befitting my breed. And when I am done, I will drink a glass of milk, thunder be damned. Then I will curl myself into a tight tiny ball, with other tight tiny furred balls gathered purring around me, and I will sleep.