Kage Baker was a dedicated writer, with a will of iron. The only way to be a writer, she said, is to write – every day, regardless of topic, just putting words down in order. Eventually a theme would emerge and momentum would kick in.

A lot of writers say the same thing; but even among the pros, the stubbornness to actually do it is rare. It takes a touch of OCD in your nature, according to Kage, and she gleefully employed what she always claimed was her own when faced with the challenge. She said that considering it a compulsive act, and writing about whatever came into her head – as opposed to the half-written contracted novel sulking on the hard drive – gave the exercise the frisson of wickedness necessary to keep going.

In the years before Kage went pro, she really did write almost every day. Those years date back to before high school … tons of legal pads, reams of typing paper, all written in her insanely bad cursive script. Entire novels were written this way and are now sealed up in boxes (except the ones living on and in my desk …) One of the delights of my teens and 20’s and 30’s was coming home every night to read what she had written that day. It taught Kage the rudiments of her craft. New ideas rose to the surface even as she struggled grimly with obdurate plots, and were stored away thriftily. She mined that hoard for stories for the rest of her life.

I have striven mightily to emulate her in this, and have pretty much succeeded. It’s a rare day now when I don’t write something, and I’ve reached that splendid point where ideas bubble up at all hours – as I fall asleep, as I read, as I edit and write new stuff. It gets confusing sometimes, and I know I haven’t achieved Kage’s effortless flood, but I am achieving much more than I ever thought I could.

However, real life does interfere … I was so excited and happy to come home from the hospital a week ago, that I apparently slightly overdid things. Yesterday I hit a wall, maybe. Maybe my recovery just plateaued for a while. Whatever it was, I suddenly just stopped, and not even my Kindle or a rousing game of Plants Vs. Zombies could hold my attention.

When I realized that the little black cat was complaining because the cursor on the screen – in front of which she likes to sprawl and watch – was unmoving, I knew I had pegged “E”. Nothing was wrong – I was just in need of being horizontal and maybe asleep. I explained this to the little black cat, and she agreed: sometimes you just have to be a flat drowsing object. She curled up with me as soon as I was under the covers, too, thus tenderly making sure I would rest …

So I am resting a bit more, and bouncing around a bit less. I’m much better than I was pre-surgery, but I am still convalescent. Imagine my surprise! It took my black velvet friend to bring this to my attention, and to insist I slow down a little.

Anyway:  in her honor, here is a poem that pretty much sums up yestreday and today. Not mine or Kage’s – it’s from the Gaelic, written long ago when the world was very, very different: but not, apparently, for cats or writers.