Every writer talks about the importance of a good editor. You know, someone to keep you focused. Someone who makes sure you're not drifting off course. Someone who physically stands on your writing to prevent further revisions.
I was revising some writing I had done on a sheet of paper. One of those fragile little paragraphs that could tilt either towards brilliance or complete nonsense. That's when I noticed the unmistakable weight of oversight.
I was halfway through adjusting a paragraph—one of those fragile little paragraphs that could tilt either toward brilliance or complete nonsense—when I felt the unmistakable weight of a feline's gaze.
Freya had decided that whatever I was doing was either:
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Taking too long
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Not involving her
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In need of immediate intervention
There is something uniquely humbling about having your creative momentum paused by a calico who believes the correct placement for her paws is precisely over the most important sentence.
I attempted diplomacy.
She refused to move.
I attempted redirection via the form of her favorite treats.
She stared at me.
Eventually I accepted the truth: the scene was finished. Not because I had completed it, but because my editor had declared it so.
Writers talk about deadlines.
Freya talks about naps.
And in the hierarchy of this household, naps outrank narrative arcs.
In fairness, she has a point. Sometimes when I push too hard on a paragraph, it stiffens. When I step away, or when I am forcibly stepped away, the writing breathes again.
Freya would never admit that’s what she’s doing. She prefers to maintain the illusion of chaos.
But I suspect she understands something important: Not all interruptions are sabotage. Some are reminders to soften your grip.
Even if they arrive with paws.
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