The cat walked up to me, out of the blue.
“I want to be a writer,” he said.
I slammed my special writing pen with the puffy pink feathers onto the desk.
“Good gravy, stop scaring me like that!” I said. “I’m trying to turn the greatest American novel into the greatest American Broadway musical, and you come up with stupid questions like that.”
“It’s not a stupid question, it was a statement,” said the cat. “I want to become a writer.”
“Nobody BECOMES a writer,” I scoffed. “We’re born that way. That’s like a boy saying he wants to become a girl. Everything is wrapped up and pre-ordained right in our DNA.”
“Don’t Need to Ask.”
“How rude,” said the cat. “Well, I’m going to become a writer, with or without your help. I’ve got stories to tell and someone out there wants to read them.”
I flipped my hair back and sighed. “This is exactly the conversation we had last Tuesday, when you said you wanted to be a duck. You can’t be a duck or a writer! You’re a cat.”
The cat frowned and walked away, his tail whipping back and forth.
“We’ll see about that,” he growled.
I turned back to my writing desk, and shook my head. “This country …”