I've come to the conclusion that my cats are trying to sabotage my writing career. You see, I work at home. My job largely consists of sitting at my desk and writing. That is, after all, what writers do. See? Here I am:
Meanwhile, my two cats do what they do best. They sleep.
(I can't draw a cat to save my life, so you'll just have to tolerate actual photos of my cats)
Since my genre of choice is erotica, there invariably comes a point in my writing day when I flit to a scene/chapter involving people DOING THE DEED. This is when everything starts to go wrong.
I open up a dirty chapter and get ready to write the characters doing unspeakable things to each other...
...and somewhere in the house, something awakens.
With the kind of precise timing that would make the military weep with envy, the sabotage bomb is dropped.
There's no escape. There's just no writing through that, especially when I'm trying to write something sexy. There is nothing I can do except wait for it to be over.
But of course, it doesn't end with the horchestra sound effects. Oooooh, no.
I'm the only one home.
Which means I'm stuck on paper towel detail.
The cats, of course, find this endlessly amusing.
Anyway. Once the attack is over and the shrapnel cleaned up, I return to my desk. But the damage is done. The mood is killed.
Because really, all I can think when I try to continue the scene is the last thing I heard while I tried to write it. Mood killer? Uh, yeah. Back to a more platonic scene.
Eventually, the house returns to the retch-free tranquility I enjoy. The cats go back to sleep.
These cats sleep a lot.
I get back to writing. I once again find myself in the mood to write one of those scenes(tm).
And somewhere in the house...
...it begins anew.