The Sleeping Lion -- Waking Up to Change

Back in 1990 I decided to write a science fiction story called, "The Sleeping Lion" based on an idea that I had.  The story is about a young woman named Kelly who lives with an abusive boyfriend.  She escapes for an evening hike in the mountains to find a meteor hurtling into her path.  It crashes, but then she finds that it's not a meteor.

Of course, as with most of my stories, there has to be an animal with a primary role in the story.  In this one, it is Art, a Somali cat.

I had plenty of experience with some of the subject matter -- including life in Colorado with an abusive boyfriend.  Spending weekends hiking up in the mountains in Estes Park was one of the best experiences I've ever had -- nasty boyfriend notwithstanding.

About five years after the Colorado stint, and when I decided to write the story, I was in Michigan and married.  Unfortunately my taste in men hadn't improved a whole lot.  He was still abusive, only in more subtle (therefore longer-lasting and ultimately more damaging) ways.  Because he was essentially a rocket scientist, I was able to glean some good information from him for the story.

I didn't have any luck in the publishing world at that point, so the book lay inactive for years, until just recently when I dug it out again, rather accidentally.

Though it is a sci-fi story about a crashing meteor, "The Sleeping Lion" is ultimately about relationships, with the central theme being about personal inner strength.  It is a message I keep re-exploring.  I don't seem to consciously realize it, but it appears that my deepest desire is to be strong.  I admire strength which doesn't sacrifice kindness, empathy which doesn't sacrifice dignity.

In reading it, I was happy to note that I have changed, mainly in that there is no way I would now put up with that kind of treatment from anyone.

I knew that my writing skills have also matured, but I still have much to learn.  It is, however, still an entertaining read. 

I especially liked revisiting Art, my long-lost Somali cat, and the trails in Estes Park.  I need to get back there someday.   I hope that, unlike me, they haven't changed too much.

"The Sleeping Lion" is also available on Kindle. 

My Best Cat

MY BEST CAT - a Furry Murder Mystery.  While this book is a departure from my usual work (read: adult humor), it is by far the funniest, and one that I wish had garnered more attention.  Maybe it would have if I put more effort into promoting it.  I'm in the process of making it available on Kindle and so it's gotten something of a facelift, with a new cover and all.  The cover illustration is a watercolor I did called, "The Blue Curtain".  Some people will recognize the breed of cat as a blue Abyssinian, which is featured in the story.

There is something deliciously naughty in writing fiction (adult humor) about people whom you have known.  In MY BEST CAT I have combined some of the most horrendous qualities from a few real-life despicable characters in the deranged hobby known as the cat fancy.  Writing can be a cloak-and-dagger form of personal protection.  Karma is in your hands.

The characters shall remain fictitious, but here is a short teaser passage from an early chapter, just to give you a taste.  Oh, and did I mention there is some adult humor?

“Hold still!” Roxanne barked.  She stood with her butt sticking way out while she groomed my Somali.  She would bend over while she combed Kenya’s britches, then grab the tip of his tail and shake, shake, shake the hair so it fell down backwards.  It made his tail real fluffy, and made her butt shake at the same time.  Kenya’s back feet would be lifted off the carpeted grooming table, but he didn’t care.  He just kept right on purring and smiling that kitty smile.  He was that dumb.

The real goal in Roxanne’s grooming yoga was to get Jack, the guy down the row, to look at her ass.  Jack was married to a giddy, heavy-set blonde named Tracy.  But he and Roxanne had been carrying on for a few weeks, and were fresh in the throes of new lust.  Jack pretended to be oblivious to Roxanne’s grooming efforts, but it was only pretend.  He rattled the newspaper he was reading, but I saw his eyes roll briefly toward the target area as he turned the page.  It made me want to gag.  Nothing more nauseating than being witness to someone else’s foreplay.

I didn’t think Jack was all that attractive.  He had pasty skin, a fading mustache, and overall he looked sort of used and dull.  But he was one of the only straight guys in the cat crowd who was over eight and under sixty.  And he was great with the cats, handling them gently and with adulation.  As a result, he was object of perpetual crushes of various cat fanciers.  While other husbands scorned the cat shows, Jack came weekend after weekend, trundling the grooming carts, fetching litter and water, and pinning up lacy cage curtains.  I could understand why.  In the real world, Jack was a dork.  In the cat world, he was a god.