I’m reviewing character sketches this week because I want to dive back into the book I was working on. I can’t escape it; the storyline is always in the back of my mind. The only way I’ll be able to get it out of my head is to get it on paper.
Anyway, I decided I needed to re-acquaint myself with the characters and further develop a couple of the eccentrics who have become dear to me. I also thought it would be a good idea to dig out my pastels and paper and draw some of the scenery one might see in this land I’m creating. Stick myself right into the story. We’ll see what comes of it.
At any rate, this is about Miles and a conversation I had with him a while back. I believe at this time I was interviewing characters to get a feel for them and I discovered that they all wanted to be big players, not mere extras.
Except Miles. Content to be an extra, but he’s so, so much more.
“Miles, don’t you want some screen time, too?” I ask. He ignores me. “Everyone else wants it.”
He leans against the wall, black tail twitching from side to side, and takes a long drag from his cigarette. His olive eyes squint along with the deep inhalation and graying ears flatten slightly as the smoke unfurls from his nose. “Screen time, no screen time. Tell me: what means it to me, pussycat? I am here. If everyone jump into Sigmund’s slimy pond, I jump, too? No.”
“Right, but wouldn’t you like more of the story to be about you instead of-”
Pfft. He shrugs his shoulders and waves his cigarette-clad hand toward the sky. “Stories, stories. I tell you story. I, along with that bovine, Sigmund- wait, was it Beatrice? Hmmm. Ah, no matter. Bovines are bovines. They all look same. Now, uh, Siggi and I, we travels down to Hawbury Lane. You know where is? Down past empty golf shack.” Miles takes another drag and snorts. “Really. Golf? You see bovines and cats and clans of those- what you say- little people? You see them golfing? Ha. No. But one stupid idea climbed on another for Georges.” He shakes his head and flicks the cigarette into an empty Shasta can. “Poor Georges. Now, darling, where was I? Hawbury Lane and Siggi and those damn dragonflies, yes?”
“Uh, Miles, I’d really love to hear this, but I must get going.”
He shrugs his shoulder again. “You be back. You all come back. Why? I tell yous. Because I am of infected charm.”
“Yes. I am oozing in the blood with charm.” He winks. “Off you go, peanut. I track down Siggi now. We have rodent to squeeze.” Miles saunters off, muttering and whining all the way. “Damn theiving squirrel. She steals cigarette for last time. PRITI! I come for you, smoke swindler! Steal last cigarette. I have not time for this right now.”
Miles the cat. How I adore thee.