THE SOMETIME WRITER

A WRITING BLOG About Playing Around with a Story Line in Different Literary Genres and Different Literary Categories

Writing Leap #25     The Sometime Writer

Hi Sometime Writers,

There is something deeply satisfying about writing JUST TO WRITE.   Finding words for your thoughts and memories can touch a different and perhaps new part of your creative self.  To all of you who think you can’t write, merely trying to put a memory, experience,  or feeling down on paper can bring a creative thrill.    And there are no rules!   So let yourself be seduced by that pen and that notebook.  Don’t pick a beautifully designed notebook.  You may feel the need to write perfect sentences.  A yellow legal pad is more relaxing.  Try it!  I bet you’ll want to read it to a friend.

The Story Line is Finding Comfort

Lisl Steiner is my guest blogger.  She is a photojournalist and documentarian (lislsteiner.com) who is beginning to fall in love with writing.  She was born in Vienna, raised in Argentina and at eighty-six years old lives in the U.S.A., her home for many years.  What is wonderful about Lisl’s writing adventures is that English is her third language.

Here is a shortened version of  her longer piece about Rojito, her “alter-ego.”

People always write about their dogs, cats canaries, iguanas, pumas, pandas and penguins.  Well, it’s time to write about my cat Rojito, my “alter ego.”  We are both redheads.  I am fading.  Rojito did not.

Rojito was left in a vent in a fancy Fifth Avenue apartment building in New York.  A friend gave him to me the week my husband died.

A very vocal cat, Rojito was small and had just lost his male parts.  He did not object a bit to tender loving care.  He approved of his new country environment and was a good hunter, always bringing me presents to the door.  Every night for thirteen years he scratched at my window at two AM sharp.  He knew he could count on me to wake up and let him in.

This is really a very short story.  Rojito was thirteen years old, was getting thinner, ate less, went out more and more…

He disappeared twice and I thought that this was it.  But no.  Just as in Italian operas where the tenor sings goodbye forever “adio, adio, adio,” he came back for one more encore.

He liked the idea that I was right there with him.  When death came he made a tiny sound and was gone.

By chance three Guatemalan gardeners were working at the house.  I shanghaied them into digging a grave for him.  Rojito went into it and I put many heart shaped rocks I had collected over the years on top.  With myself and the three Guatemalan men Rojito enjoyed a Mayan, Aztec, Inca and Viennese funeral.

LINKING THE ARTS

For ROJITO

Happy Writing Everyone,