Writer's Block

$20,000 was a great deal of money. Could they even legally offer so much? How do taxes work with that?

Kate sipped lukewarm coffee. A snowy barn owl is a majestic creature. It provided so much room to dream of something mystic, cold, and magical. “Don’t you know that snowy barn owls are snowy all year, not just during the winter?”

Kate looked over to Boots, the Ragdoll cat mutt from the humane society. “Are cats still mutts? Or is that only dogs?” Boots responded blankly. She didn’t generally have an opinion on word choice. She was even tempered, but simple, and thought any expenditure of energy for the arts was time misplaced. “So you don’t think they’re mystic and magical all year?”

Boots sighed. “Well, do you think of them sitting in trees during warm summer days? Leafs and berries green? I guess it’s your story.” She laid her head back down on the chair.

Hm. Kate sipped her coffee again. Her mind started to wander...

James Liverdie, the worlds most morose mortician. One day he opens up a body bag, and inside is a human sized, snowy barn owl. Alive? No, dead of course, he’s a mortician. “Thats pretty grim,” Boots says.

“What if the barn owl is like, hanging around, trying to give good advice?”

“Would you listen to an owl who gave you advice?” Boots asks. Hm. She has a point.

Dranquila, The Last Barn Owl, ruler of the birds, only visits on special occasions, and it’s with great horror the ducks, cardinals, and other birds of prey see her chilling wings catch white light of the moon. It can only mean one thing: Dark Crimson has fallen.

Boots is snoring. She’ll have to try something else.

“Maybe the owl does not have wings? She can hop everywhere, and lead some small forrest animals through the snow by her tracks. They can meet other forrest animals along the way, austere foxes and some groggy and unpleasant bears. It would be this moving tale of friendship being built during perilous adventures...”

“But what of the owl?” Boots pragmatism always bringing the couple back to reality.

Ah, yes, what of the owl. “Perhaps she was a figment of their imagination the whole time?” Boots shook her head. The bell around her neck tinkled. “It’s lazy writing, Kate.”

“What if the owls are not magical, but instead snarky?” Approval is being born in the eyes of the cat. “Maybe socially,” Kate continues, “they’re at the bottom of the bird chain. What if that’s why they have to live in the barn away from all the other farm animals? But then, one day, they must retrieve the balloon of the beloved farmer’s son, and the owl is the only one who can muster the courage to fly so high...”

“Will it be a comedy?”

Kate looks at Boots. “Yes, of course it will be a comedy. The owl will be very witty, in fact, she’ll be like this rebel type, not like, goth rebellious, but like, academically rebellious. And she’ll run all these side hustles around the barn yard, and all the donkeys will know to not take her seriously or give her any money for investments. She’ll always be looking for investment opportunities you see.”

Boots stares pensively. Kate continues. “Yeah, maybe she can sell farm yard Mary Kay, or LulaRoe, and she knows all the chickens just go crazy for this stuff.”

“I really like this.” Boots is such a supportive kitty. “But your story needs a twist ending.”

“Like this one?” Kate says. She wipes coffee off her beak.