We decorated the tree last night, as well as the fireplace mantelpiece, and the house does feel a bit warmer and more Christmassy. The cat was lying by the fire, as usual, watching all of the commotion, only getting up when he was spontaneously decorated with gold tinsel garlands.
After that, we went upstairs: Warcraft for Phil and work on the site for myself. Around 9:30 or so I went down to check on the cat, and found the door into the family room pulled open, no cat to be seen. I went up the stairs, calling him, and then went into the bedroom.
What did I find there? A cat lying in the bed, trying to lay as flat and small as possible, eyes peeking over a fold of blanket at me. I could tell that he was trying the feline Jedi mind trick, using his psychic powers of control to say “You see nothing here. There is only an unmade bed. There are no cats here…just move on.” Being immune to the powers of feline psychic persuasion, I unceremoniously scooped him up and hauled him downstairs. He went out the door into the back garden, tail twitching in a huff of cat spite and snarkiness.
I debated not telling Phil, who would have probably want to strip the bed. Fell guilty. Told him. He didn’t strip the bed, but is complaining of sneezing all day today.
I found a copy of Stephen King’s book “On Writing” this weekend in a used book store. I really enjoyed this the first time I read it. It’s partially autobiography, and partially a book on how to be a writer (in comparison with books on how to actually write). I’ve always enjoyed his books, and miss them very much. I think he is a very good writer without a lot of flourishes and literary pretensions, who can really get inside his characters, body and soul. I don’t remember exactly how the anecdote went, but at one point he was talking about the kind of earnest, artsy writing workshop where you all read your work, and very thoughtful, supportive people say things like “I kind of, you know…liked it a lot. It gave me a…I don’t know, like a warm kind of feeling, you know…” (Paraphrasing madly here.) And then he made the point that if that is how you communicate, you might be…you know, kind of…well, like maybe in the wrong fucking class.