This morning I looked up from my laptop and realized I’m being supervised.
Not casually. Not lovingly. Supervised the way you supervise someone who has made a series of questionable life choices and is now pretending they’re “fine” while surrounded by cardboard boxes and dust.
My cat is unimpressed with the renovations.
Not “mildly annoyed.” Not “slightly inconvenienced.” No. She’s acting like I personally tore down the wall between the kitchen and dining room with my bare hands just to ruin her routine. She’s got that tight little face that says, I will remember this. I will bring it up later. Possibly in court.
Here’s where we’re at: half the house is packed, the other half looks like a before photo on a home reno show, and somehow my office has turned into a VIP lounge for cat essentials. Her cat post? In here. Her food? In here. Her general air of authority and judgment? Also in here. Apparently the renovation required a full relocation of her entire kingdom… and I’m the unpaid staff who made it happen.
So I’m sitting down to write, trying to summon a fantasy world full of magic, danger, and romance, and I can feel her watching me.
Do you know how hard it is to write a dramatic scene when a tiny furry auditor is staring at you like you’re about to commit tax fraud?
Every time I pause to think, she narrows her eyes.
Every time I type something bold, she looks personally offended.
Every time I whisper, “Okay, what would he do next?” she blinks slowly like, He would not be doing this. He would be respecting quiet hours.
And the worst part is, I don’t have the heart to tell her they’re just getting started.
Because right now she thinks this is temporary. A brief disruption. A weird phase where the house is full of boxes and strangers and suspicious noises. She believes we will all return to normal soon.
Meanwhile, I know what’s coming.
More tearing. More banging. More “we just need to check something real quick” which is never quick and always involves a new hole existing where a wall used to be. More forced proximity in my office as I try to write through the sound of progress and the emotional weight of her disappointment.
She keeps wandering to the doorway, sniffing the air like a detective in a noir film. Then she comes back, sits directly behind my chair, and sighs like she’s the one paying the mortgage.
I would like to report that I’m handling it with grace.
I am not.
I’m writing in stolen pockets of quiet. I’m making peace with the fact that my “creative atmosphere” currently includes sawdust and the occasional crash that makes me question reality. I’m negotiating with a cat who believes the entire renovation is a personal attack. And still… the words are happening. Somehow.
Not perfectly. Not elegantly. But they’re happening.
And honestly, that’s the only kind of magic I can promise right now.
If you’ve ever tried to focus while your life is actively being rearranged, please know I see you. If you’ve never experienced that, please enjoy your peace and light a candle for the rest of us.
Next update: I’ll either be thriving… or the cat will have seized control of my office and I’ll be writing from a stack of moving boxes like a sad little goblin.
