And how is it going, PB, in your newly rediscovered armchair? Are you working under favorable conditions? Or does the scent of cat pee distract you, just as you’ve made yourself comfortable, laptop on lap, glass of wine on the bookshelf next to you (bobbing icecube slowly making it a palatable glass of wine as once again you forgot to chill the bottle)—send you charging up from the chair and down to the floor, nose to Pergo, send you running for the bottle of cat pee cleaner and a roll of paper towels and four minutes of intense scrubbing later, hunting in the dewy backyard for the perpetrator as once again you’ve forgotten to bring him in and it’s dark out there and offender or not he is a baby, well, youth, and he looks like a creamsicle and you adore him even though you want to strangle his scruffy little neck, which isn’t fair as the perpetrator could be your other cat, the one slowly going feral, refusing to come inside except for food because of the creamsicle’s presence—or the mystery pee-er could be the 18lber, the tiger cat the creamsicle tortures with vampire behavior and paws in the face, who knows, pee, pee, cat pee everywhere, so that you’re ready to call in the kitty psychologist or kitty psychic or the kitty hitman, throw them all out into the dark, damp backyard so that you may sit in your armchair cat-pee-scent-free and blog about your pets instead of working…
But when you’re finally ensconced and no one is hissing or yowling or peeing anywhere except the cat box, how is it going? Is your revising going swimmingly? Is that even allowed? Have you penned notes neatly on hardcopies instead of in that bird’s nest handwriting even you can’t decipher? Are you progressing in a timely manner? Do you know what that means?
PB, look—the icecube has melted. Take a sip of wine. Now step away from your thoughts. Back to work, please. Back to work.
And think: Swimmingly.