"I want to be left alone," Garbo said

I recently heard an interview on NPR with an author who wrote a novel about a famous reclusive writer.

I found myself wondering if it's even possible to be a famous reclusive writer anymore? With book tours and required promotions like blogs and social media and all the things that are pushed on authors--heck, even NPR interviews--how can it be? A famous writer OR a reclusive writer, sure. But both? I can't see it happening. I can't see people leaving you alone to be so--people who like your work and want to tell you, much less your own agent or publisher.

Imagine Salinger on Twitter. Or Harper Lee embarking on a multi-city signing, having to smile at all the Boo Radley cosplayers in front of her table. Agents considering Proust's work purring derisively, "But Mr. Proust, what's your platform?" Could Emily Dickinson have written what she did if she were constantly being prodded to self-promote her poetry?  (Though, to be fair, poetry is probably in a different category and she wasn't popular in her lifetime).

Is it still possible? I don't know.

I kind of hope so, though. It's the kind of writer I'd like to be. Like Anne McCaffery on her Irish hidey-hole estate...only in my case, somewhere on the coast of New England, perhaps. (Not that I'd turn my nose up at Ireland or Scotland, but if I'm going to make the kind of money famous reclusive writers make in order to maintain their reclusivity, I'm getting ocean-front).

Besides, so much of my work depends on being able to interact with trees and listening to wind and water or staring into the face of the blue, blue sky or sussing out the tiny wildflowers that hide under bracken in the woods.  It involves knowing the insides of people's minds, not the brief, brisk, interactions that blur together.

I do want to write work that lasts, work that speaks to people and creates new, wandering pathways through their synapses. I want to craft things that bring tears to my readers' eyes or elicit unexpected belly laughs. And, yes, it would be wonderful to be able to do all of that and get paid for it well enough that I wouldn't HAVE to do anything else--but I'm not sure being famous is worth it.

Then again, I'm not sure being a recluse is, either.

Foster Fail

Yep.

I'm keeping her.

Her new name is Pavlova, after both the dancer and the dessert, but pronounced as the dessert is. Pav-LO-va.

She is rather like a meringue with toppings, yes?

Now that we've got that settled, perhaps I can get back to the rest of my life and start musing about in blog posts again.

Then kitten happened...

Sorry, sorry. For the three of you who come here, I've got a bunch of partial posts on the back burner. But I've gotten distracted by things like job interviews, life, shelter animals, and a fluffy kitten.

This fluffy kitten.

Background: for those of you who don't know, I've been volunteering at our local Humane Society since...oh, gosh, since March. Wow. I started as a dog walker, cat player-wither, and then a couple of months ago, I started writing profiles.

Since then I have met and said goodbye to several dogs I would rather have taken home with me, said a far-too-permanent goodbye to two dogs I loved deeply and instantaneously who each died of complications of illnesses (one of them this last week; I was there when he arrived at the shelter and I was with him in his final moments), given chin scratches to scores of cats and kittens (knowing it was too soon after Hamlet's loss to bring another home), and become a pet and/or volunteering pusher. "Come on; come with me just one time. No pressure!" 

Anyway, a couple of weeks ago, the above kitten was caught in a humane trap that had been set for another litter. They were in there, black and striped, and then there was this fuzzy, long-haired ragdoll kitten no one was expecting.

The shelter staff named her Buttercup, but Shrinking Violet might have been a better name. She was half feral, hissing and trying desperately to hide every time a hand came near her. She didn't try to bite or scratch, not once, but the power of that hiss kept most people away.

I'd picked her up a few times, and she always dissolved into purring. We think that's the ragdoll breeding. But you had to be willing to bypass the hissing and fear first.

On Friday night, I caved to the pressure of the great shelter folks (who are themselves pushers of the highest order, but in the nicest way), of her cuteness, and of my desire to see if I could get her to her best cat self. I brought her home to socialize in a non-threatening environment.

She spent most of Friday night hiding in the litter box. It has nice, tall sides and felt safe to her. She came out to eat food and to get forcibly cuddled (which she loved and hated, all at the same time), and then would slink back in to her safe place the instant something scary would happen--like, say, I moved one of my feet.

By today, Sunday, she's a different kitten. Oh, she still hisses and backs away EVERY TIME I come into her room. But it only takes me getting on my hands and knees now, and she runs TO me, rather than away. She purrs a real purr all the time, she twines about me, she's learned to play with toys, she uses the whole room to explore, rather than just sleeping curled up in the corner of the litter box, and she'll crawl up on my lap on her own. All this in just two days.

I still think the rest of the house is too much for her right now. She's working on owning her controlled environment. But if things keep going the way they have been, she's going to make someone a wonderful companion in the not-too-distant future.

I have been warned about foster-fails. You know, where you take someone home to "foster," and suddenly, you just have a new pet who never leaves, because you can't bear to give them back? So far, I've been holding out strong. Thinking of new names doesn't count; I'm a writer and namer, it's just what I do. Calling her baby doesn't count; that's just how you refer to wee animals. Being proud of her when she does things like a normal kitten instead of a feral baby doesn't count; that's pride in my work and hope for her future.

Right?

I'm not doomed yet. YET. Give me another week or two, though, and it might be too late.

Which is too bad, because now I've got a perfect room for fostering other kitters. Adopt the one or help the many?

In short, *flail*

Here. Have a video. Turn your head to the left and enjoy.