I love writing stuff, but other stuff gets in the way. Like Mouth's mouth and Tail's tail, and the occasional flea.
This is hardly Shakespeare-level stuff.
I thought maybe if I read more, I'd get more ideas of what to write. I've just finished The Cat who Came in from the Cold by Deric Longden. It is the best thing I've read in ages.
Finishing it was a massive accomplishment.
Not because it's a difficult book, or even an especially long one, but because when I try to read, this is what happens:
Mouth does not understand reading.
I try to break it down for him. Paper. He understands paper. He likes to chew it.
Looking at things. Yes, he knows about looking at things. He can look at birds for hours.
But he still can't comprehend why I would want to look at paper for hours on end. I mean, it's not even like I nibble the edge of the page.
When I try to read, a large tabby bottom inserts itself decisively between the book and my face. Or, sometimes, an assertive paw intervenes before I can even open the cover.
I think I'll just have to stick with what I already know. Which isn't much.