SUMMER READS, by Mollie Hunt, Cat Writer

Artwork Credit: Cats-napping, Rosehill Studio

This is the time of year when every bookseller platform is boasting a plethora of “summer reads.” Some are even more specifically “beach reads.” I’m not sure what these books are called for the rest of the year, but once the sun begins to shine, “summer reads” abound. 

What exactly constitutes a “summer read”? Something light, that doesn’t involve a lot of thought? Something with thrills and chills? Something romantic, where the handsome young Scotsman, after many trials and tribulations, is finally, passionately united with his lass? Something funny and a bit gross?

Art Credit: JP Ferrara - Scotsman Carrying Woman

Fact is, “summer reads” can be whatever someone might like to read while on vacation. Since many people read more books on a two-week holiday than they do in the entire year, they must pick their material wisely. 

I recently advertised my cozy cat mysteries as a “summer read,” to which one of my fans from the other hemisphere asked about reads for those who are now settling in around the fireplace for the coming winter. This got me thinking. Shouldn’t we have “winter reads” as well? Maybe something weighty with portent? Or poignant nonfiction? Poetry? The Classics? 

Or, as I suspect, are “winter reads” really the same as “summer reads”? Shouldn’t we be reading whatever we wish whenever we want? Let’s face it: these vague genres are a marketing device, nothing more. So go ahead and take that copy of “War and Peace” on your trip to the Bahamas.  Snuggle up in front of the fire with a romance or a faery tale. When it comes to reading, the choice is up to us.

  

Check out more blogs by Mollie Hunt, Cat Writer at:

Mollie Hunt: Crazy Cat Lady Mysteries and more

Happy reading!

BACKLOG, by Mollie Hunt, Cat Writer

 If you don’t count a brief obsession when I was in fourth grade or the scifi novel I started when I was a hippie, my writing career began in 1994 when my husband went to work in Japan, leaving me alone in Portland, Oregon.

We were having new carpeting installed in the bedroom, so the bed had been moved into his office, directly across from his computer. Not used to being on my own, I often couldn’t sleep and would stare at that blank, black monitor screen. I loved reading mysteries and had a few thoughts of writing one; now here was my chance!

            I considered for several nights more, then during one post-midnight awake session, I got up and began. I didn’t know anything about computers, having only used one on rare occasions, but I found a writing program (WordPerfect 0.00001 or some such), inserted a floppy disk so I wouldn’t use up space on the hard drive, and began to type.

            Then, as now, I came up with the title first: The Oldest House. It was a story of a thirty-something antiques and collectible dealer who finds a framed print with a picture of an old house hidden behind it. Off she goes on adventures; there is a murder; she meets a man who is either the murderer or the prince of her dreams; she gets herself into danger and is almost killed… It was a basic plot, but I loved it and I loved writing it. Before I knew it, I had a full forty-five pages! There was no turning back.

            The page count grew into 450, and I began the process of querying agents and publishers. I got one personal response that I took to heart: the murder should happen in the first ten pages. I rewrote the beginning, sent it back, and received a rejection slip, but I didn’t care. By that time I had started my second book.

            The second mystery, Broken Roses,  was a tough one with a complex plot that spanned several decades. I found myself incorporating details from my own life, including the basis for the book, a letter by a young jilted girl that we found in the walls of our house. In my story, the woman goes a little crazy. There is a rape scene, which I wrote with tears streaming down my face as I recalled my own abuse. It was cathartic though, and I didn’t regret the scene.

            This book was not picked up by publishers or agents either.

            Next, I tried something lighter, first of a would-be series called Catts and the Seven of Swords. L.E. (Elly) Catts is a West Coast photographer, who along with her assistant Ryan and his cat Medusa, finds the usual, and some unusual, trouble concerning the witches, the Tarot, and a body on a slab. This was the first time I’d incorporated the cat.

            Again, no one wanted the book, and I bought an accordion folder to house my mounting collection of rejection slips. I knew I wasn’t working hard enough on the interminable chore of query letters and synopses, but I only had so much time, and I’d rather spend it writing stories.

I moved on to something completely different, the series that turned out to be what I consider my masterpiece. The idea for the Cat Seasons tetralogy began with my old cat Dirty Harry sleeping under a hosta plant in the heat of summer. Twitching in his sleep, dreaming his cat dreams, the scifi-fantasy Cat Summer was born, followed by Cat Winter, Cat Autumn, and Cat Spring. The idea was basic— cats saving the world— but the premise was fascinating, and soon I’d woven a rich tapestry of time travel, alternate universes, and a devil without a soul. Now, many edits later, I’m proud to announce the first of the tetralogy, Cat Summer, will be published sometime this year by Fire Star!

            I still think of that backlog of first books, The Oldest House, Broken Roses,  and the L.E. Catts series. Sometimes they call to me, and every once in a while, I listen.

Check out more blogs by Mollie Hunt, Cat Writer at:

Mollie Hunt: Crazy Cat Lady Mysteries and more

Happy reading!

YOU CAN’T GO HOME AGAIN, UNLESS YOU’RE A WRITER. by Mollie Hunt

When I quit my job of 15 years, I vowed to my workplace friends I’d come back to visit. Over a year and I haven’t been back yet. 

My parents spent their final days in a lovely assisted living community where they, and I, made many friends. At their funerals, I promised I would see everyone again. I’ve not fulfilled that promise either. 

It’s not that I don’t mean it– I do. But life goes on. Things change. Time passes, and nothing is ever the same. Though the phrase, “You can’t go home again”, classically refers to one’s childhood, at 64, I have a whole compendium of things to which I can never return. 

Except, I can. 

In words and stories, I have visited those rooms of childhood, run through the spring-lit gardens of youth, dropped in and said hello to history, caressed the sounds and scents of days gone long ago. I have dwelt in dreams, righted wrongs, and even taken my share of revenge. (“Never wrong a writer. They get their revenge in print.”)  

In Placid River Runs Deep, I went back to my childhood summer place, got to visit with my grandmother, and watch the sun set over the hills once more. 

In Broken Roses, I killed the man who abused me. 

In L. E. Catts and the Seven of Swords, I courted a bad-boy old flame. 

In my cat mysteries, I see a better stronger different version of myself.

Through writing, there is no place I cannot go.

Happy Reading!

Be sure to visit my Website, Crazy Cat Lady Mysteries and More,  

and my Facebook Writer’s Page at Mollie Hunt, Writer.

Check out Cat's Paw, my latest Crazy Cat Lady cozy mystery on Amazon.

CAT STUFF, by Mollie Hunt

I don’t consider myself a collector. The idea that I purposefully go out seeking cat objects is ludicrous. Yet when I look around me, at my desk, my shelves, my bookcase, my jewelry, even my clothing, I have to wonder. From every side, round furry faces with pointed ears and bright gem eyes stare back at me. Plush, wood, ceramic, paper – there are cats. Cats everywhere. But I’m not a collector. 

There is something about the fluid shape of a cat, the perfect symmetry (or in some cases, perfectly imperfect) that pleases the eye and soothes the soul. When I am sad or lost for words, I run my gaze over the long back and shapely tail. When I am anxious, the serenity of a sleeping cat calms me. And when I’m just here and present, I enjoy looking at their form. To me, cats are flawless.

I’m picky about the cat items with which I surround myself. I can tell whether the artist has a true affinity for cats or he is just doing a design job. Cutsie kittens or uncat-like caricatures are not my preference. On the other hand, I enjoy the strange colors of the whimsical post-war MIJ figures, the Oaxacan carved totems, and the Japanese maneki-neko, because the pieces embody the personality of a real cat. 

I have many pictures of cats, portraits of cats-gone-by, photos of my beautiful current cats. There is an original wood block print by San Francisco artist Louise Gilbert and a linoleum print made by an unknown child. In my office is a wall calendar, a day planner, and cat-a-day. Over my living room couch hang 6 photos by Best Friends Sanctuary photographer Clay Meyers. I once sent him a snapshot of my kitty Harry lounging on the couch back in front of his work.

Though I don’t keep them on my bed like a starry-eyes teenager any more, I have a number of stuffed plush cats, One growls when pressed; another walks, driving my real cats crazy; yet another is in itself a cat toy. I also have a tribble who trills, given to me by author David Gerrold, but that’s another story. 

There is more – much more: cat lamp, cat needlepoint, cat tile, cat vase, cat cup, cat salt and pepper. But I assure you once again, I do not collect cat stuff. Ask me about my Star Trek autographs. Now that’s a collection!

Check out more blogs by Mollie Hunt at:

Mollie Hunt: Crazy Cat Lady Mysteries and more

Happy reading!