I suppose I should be flattered that someone took my advice to heart, even if they did alter my advice in a way I never would’ve imagined.

A few years back, I was speaking before a small group at a writers conference when someone asked, “If you could give one piece of advice to an aspiring writer, what would it be?”

After thinking about my own situation for a moment, I said, “Get a cat.” 

I went on to explain how most people who claim they want to be writers also claim they have no time to write. I say if they’re serious about writing and want to find time, they should get a cat. During their first week with the cat, they should set their alarm clock for 4 or 5 a.m. (or an hour or two before they normally rise). When the alarm rings, they should immediately get up and feed the cat something wonderful–the best canned cat food money can buy. After about a week, the cat’s internal alarm will be set.

For life. 

Every morning from then on, the feline alarm will wake the aspiring writer at that same early hour. There are no snooze buttons on cats, although you can try to ignore them. Actually, I suspect they enjoy when you do, believing it gives them license to increase the gentle taps and quiet mews to solid whacks, hair pulls, nose nips, and yowls.

Dogs may be loyal, but cats are dependable. Dependable and loyal and persistent as hell. 

My own three cats have myriad techniques. One serenades from the hall, one plays the floor vent like a xylophone, and the third strums the hamper. The hamper-strummer and singer can be tuned out, but the xylophone player is impossible to ignore. The last time I tried, he waterboarded me.

With cat alarms, my reasoning is that by the time the aspiring writer has been out of bed long enough to feed the cat, they might as well stay up and write. In my case, by the time the cats have been fed, the dogs are awake and wanting out. Being as they’re both male dogs and we have 17 bushes, by the time they’re back in, I’m fully awake.

Three cats and two dogs. A sure sign that (a) I’m serious about this writing business, or (b) I’m freaking nuts.

Anyway, I had long since forgotten about ever having given that bit of writing advice until about a month or so ago, when I ran into a man at the West Virginia Book Festival.

I have little confidence in my teaching abilities, so when this man-who identified himself as being in my workshop at the writers conference-came over saying he wanted to thank me for something he learned in my workshop, I was nicely surprised.  

So what exactly was it, I asked.

“Your cat advice,” he said.

I drew a blank for a few moments, then remembered.

“Oh, so you got a cat?”

“Actually, no,” he said, shaking his head. “But my ex wife did a few months ago.” 

He smiled, and I could tell he was thoroughly pleased with himself. 

“I don’t get it,” I said. “Is she a writer?” 

“No. And she’s not a morning person either,” he said.  

“I still don’t get it,” I said, feeling dumb. 

“Well, she just got remarried,” he said. “And as my wedding gift to her, I watched her cat.”

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