professional muse, flesh-eating feline, and cat litter connoisseur. (Never again, Fresh Step. Never. Again.)
And yet, this is her second favorite place to sit in the house. She doesn't care that one false move would render her a furry pancake with fangs. She just knows that this is where she wants to sit, darn it, and we stupid humans had better get over it. (And while we're at it, we should lay off the coffee and get a massage. Geez, don't humans know how to relax?)
The thing Boo knows and that we can't get our heads around is that to her, the risk is worth it. That spot has some allure for her that brings her more value than the fear of falling can negate. (Let's pretend here that she actually has a fear of falling. In reality, this cat fears nothing. Nothing.)
Lately, it has become even more clearly evident to me that in order to crank out the kind of work I can be proud of, I have to stop being a chicken.
My friends, I am such a chicken.
It has only been lately that I have finally internalized the fact that there is no way around it. If I am ever going to write anything that will resonate with people deep on their insides (which is the best place for people to resonate), I have to put aside the shyness, swallow my pride, and crush the fear.
Basically, I have to take a cue from the cat and find a vein of stupid courage to sit on my own Suicide Perch, spit over the edge, and make some art.
Know what? I'm still a little afraid to shift my weight or look down too long, but it's kinda working.
What does the Suicide Perch mean to you? What's on the other side? What about it has value to outweigh the risk?
If there is something out there you just can't write about, then grab up a pen and do it anyway. Your work will thank you.
What have you got to lose? Cats have nine lives, but writers have as many as it takes to get it right.