Fourteen days until deadline

I sank into my favorite pink poofy chair in front of my antique library desk with a stack of crisp white paper in front of me, a newly sharpened pencil in hand, and my cat Buttercup “Butters” purring on her bed in the corner. 

Tick tock, tick tock—meddling grandfather clock.

Tap, tap, tap—impatient pencil against my forehead.

“Wake up in there. I need a product name, slogan, and story for the commercial,” I politely requested.

More tick tocks. More tapping. 

I wrote a few words, read them aloud, crinkled up the paper. 

Repeated. Repeated again. Repeated to infinity and beyond. Tossed my frustrated self onto the bed and screamed into my Hello Kitty pillow. 

Thirteen days 

Arrrgh! I realized my imaginary friends had ghosted me.

Less than two weeks until a catchy advertising campaign for the best new cat food in the universe was due, and I had writer’s block! 

Twelve days  

“I can write,” I said aloud. Was gonna manifest. Wrote it in red lipstick on my mirror. Chanted it with gusto thirty times. 

And… nuttin’.

Eleven days  

I started the day watching The Aristocats for inspiration and finished the day trying to kill those f***ing Disney earworms. A glass, or maybe pitcher of Kentucky punch helped. 

Ten days  

Nursing a hangover, I plopped back down in my favorite pink poofy chair in front of my antique library desk with a stack of crisp white paper in front of me, a newly sharpened pencil in hand, and Butters purring on her bed in the corner. 

Hours later, I pouted, surrounded by wrinkled paper, a pile of chewed up pencils, and Butters snoring on her bed in the corner. 

Nine days  

I filled Buttercup’s bowl with the best new cat food in the universe and waited… and waited… and waited.

Eight days 

Butters finally approached the cat food! I grabbed my pencil and paper! She sniffed the food! 

And… sashayed away. 

Seven days 

I couldn’t write anything that didn’t suck. 

So, I did what any professional writer would do and curled up in a ball and ate a tub of mint chocolate chip ice cream. 

Six days 

I’m beyond desperate and crawled on hands and knees toward the best tasting cat food in the universe. Be the cat! I bowed my head, stuck out my tongue… 

Five days 

I couldn’t believe I ate cat food. 

Still nuttin’ to write.   

Four days 

“Go birdwatching to calm your mind, and the creative juices will flow,” someone dumb said. Moments later, I ran screaming from nature with bird poop on my head—wet, sticky, nasty bird poop—and my imagination a no-show. 

Three days  

“Just start writing and it’ll come to you,” someone even dumber said. That’s like asking someone who lost something, “Where’d you lose it?” 

Next idea, please! 

Two days 

“Go see that voodoo witch in the shack burrowed into the crevice on the least-fun end of Bourbon Street,” the dumbest of them all said. That was me, by the way. So there I trembled just inside the door, then…

“Come here, my pretty,” beckoned someone or something from behind a black lace curtain. Sweet Jesus, what have I done?

“Boop,” the voodoo princess (she said to call her that) said while flicking a spot between my eyebrows. “That will be fifty dollars, please.” 

“Umm… what?” I leaned forward, giving her non-lazy eye my best evil eye. “You didn’t do anything!” 

“I opened your third eye, my pretty. Fifty dollars. Now write!” 

I rapped my knuckles against the side of my head. “I can’t. Still nuttin’.” 

“Hmmm,” she moaned while stroking the caterpillar lurking above her eyeballs. Then, she disappeared in a flash behind another curtain. 

I groaned aloud, “What the beep.”

“Drink this.” She materialized behind me, reached over my shoulder, and plopped a mug of murky water onto the table. “You’ll wake up tomorrow as a writer once more.” 

How could things get worse? I thought, then held my nose, and downed the disgusting potion. As soon as I tossed my fifty on the table, she snatched it up and disappeared behind another curtain, murmuring, “There might be side effects.” 

I yanked the curtain back, screeching, “What?” But she was gone. 

Feeling like a fool, but otherwise okay, I decided to cut my losses. The disappointing excursion tired me, so I headed home and straight to bed, praying I would find a way to cure my writer’s block the next morning. 

One day 

I bolted upright upon hearing, “Frisky Business Purring Pussies cat food,” and realized the words came from my mouth. Along with that the entire ad campaign—full of double entendres—revolved in my mind like a carousel. I sprang to my pink poofy chair and scribbled until the project was complete.

After releasing a satisfying sigh, I steepled my cramping fingers in quiet thanks to the voodoo princess. 

Deadline arrived!

Ready to read my presentation, I opened my mouth to speak and… meow. Meow. Meow. Meow. 

Gasps erupted around me as with newfound agility, I leapt upon the conference table with black hair sprouting from my pores, covering my body, arms and legs. Hands and feet became paws, nails became claws. Sweet niblets, I’m a cat!

From there things got blurry. A weight landed on my chest. Something was batting at my nose. I bolted upright, eyes bulging, and knocked Buttercup off me. 

The fog cleared. 

It was all a dream.

I got up and padded across the room to sit in my favorite pink poofy chair in front of my antique library desk with a stack of crisp white paper in front of me, a newly sharpened pencil in hand, and Buttercup purring on her bed in the corner. 

Fourteen days until the deadline. 

And… 

I got nuttin’!