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Sunday, April 09, 2006
I'M GOING TO WRITE MYSTERY NOVELS....
"C'mon Maitri, type faster..."
Well, finally, one has just about had as much as any right-thinking bird can take. Cats, cats, cats, everywhere CATS on the mystery shelves. There is one blessed soul who writes mysteries with birds in it. Her name is Donna Andrews and I am just delighted. She wrote one with parrots in it, one with puffins, flamingos, I mean really, there's a woman with class! I've not read her novels yet but I ordered them and shall read them soon. I am paying Maitri a modest fee to type up the manuscript for me because she types so fast you can't even see her fingers as they are soaring across the keys. It takes me a little longer with my hunt and peck method. Well, I didn't so much have to PAY Maitri as promise to make all her lattés forever, and when I become rich and famous to buy her the biggest and best espresso machine made. She wants one like she once saw in a restaurant that you could make espresso drinks for the masses with it was so big and had a bold brass eagle on the top. I rather like the idea of an espresso machine with a bird on it myself, but of course I'll have one commissioned that has a grey parrot on top instead. I mean, really, some days he might be the only friend I have in the house.
Anyway, who could write a better mystery novel than a grey parrot I ask you? We are brilliant. We are stealth birds. We talk better than any other bird on the planet, have keen eyesight and hearing, and, as Maitri has often said, "It's downright SPOOKY the things that bird just KNOWS." Well of course I do. I know pretty well everything and what I don't know I pick up reading The New York Times while I dunk my madeleines in my tea once Maitri has settled in with her latté. I pray that one day she will keep up with the news so she knows what is going on in the world, but she usually has her nose in a book of Sufi poems, or Colette, or French Philosophy -- Lord help me if she doesn't stop going on about Gaston Bachelard's The Poetics Of Space; The Psychoanalysis of Fire; yadda yadda yadda, I'm going to burn those darned books. Please! I'm not a book burner per se, but she's read them a few hundred times and finally you get tired of her going on all swoony and quoting them. Me, I read fine classic literature, the Beats (I'm all about Kerouac.), I read several newspapers a day, and generally live with CNN on as white noise in the background on the little t.v. in the back of my cage. I can't comment on how many heads of state have called me on my little red phone. That's classified and I can't go beaking around about it to just anyone. But let's just say I have plenty of good ideas for mystery novels. Lord! I'm an outright genius!
Maitri said to put a lid on it, that is was rude to carry on so with statements like that, but essentially I say, "If ya got it, flaunt it," and baby, I GOT it! So, after making a few hundred pages of notes and writing backstory for the characters, and developing the plot line I've got Maitri typing up the first draft. She isn't too happy about it because she's got so much work to do herself, but I just keep feeding her lattés and her eyes are bulging out so far they almost touch the computer screen and her poor medicated brain has gone willy nilly and nearly over the edge so she just types at manic speed as I dictate.
"C'mon Maitri, type faster, I'm going to be the next Sherlock Holmes. Or how about this, we'll do it together. It will kind of be like Miss Marple with a grey parrot! C'mon, hurry on then..."
Henry
Divine Grey Parrot and
future New York Times Bestseller,
perhaps maybe even on Oprah!
*v*
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