I'm an Artist

When I sat down to write this blog, not sure how to introduce myself, I was startled. My cat, in a save-yourself run, flew out of my study. His fear echoed in his howl. I pushed my glasses back on my nose, hoping to identify what had set the feline into panic. Then, doing the sign of the cross over my heart, I prayed that whatever it was, wouldn’t send me running in the feline’s wake.

Now, I don’t know why I do the cross gesture, I’m not Catholic, but it’s always impressed me, and I figured I could be convinced to convert if the situation called for it.

Anyway, with my glasses firmly in place, my feet no longer resting on the floor, and Catholicism always an option, I saw . . . “it.” I didn’t panic. Calmly, I stood up, not completely happy, and went for the broom. Broom firmly in hand, I did what I had to do.

I start sweeping.

It was the rule. My own rule.

You see, the object of my cat’s horror wasn’t a rat, a snake, or one of Texas’ famous flying cockroaches, it was a dust bunny. Something even this Southern Baptist could handle.

And the rule? It’s pretty simple. I will only allow housework to pull me away from my writing when the dust bunnies grow large enough to scare my cats.

You’re probably questioning my sanity for making such a rule. But in my defense, I seriously didn’t know dust bunnies could ever grow that big, or I’d have never made it. True, there was a time when I wouldn’t have been so forthcoming about my lack of Martha Stewart DNA, but that was before I sold my first book.

Right after my novel’s release, my sister-in-law, with a friend in tow, dropped by my house—unannounced—for a meet-a-real-author event. It was August, in Houston, during a heat wave, but no way were they coming inside. I’m talking dirty laundry on the floor, including underwear, some half-folded clean laundry on the sofa, last night’s dinner dishes in the sink, and unbeknownst to me—until I went to the door—a strategically placed hair ball right in the middle of the entryway. Outside entertaining was fine. Besides, glistening is supposed to be good for Southern skin, right?

Only after the friend neared a heat stoke, did I crater and allow them inside. I did the polite Southern thing, I fixed them tea, and while blushing appropriately I profusely apologized for my dirty house and my cat’s little surprise.

An hour after they’d left, I hadn’t stopped berating myself when my sister-in-law called to tell me that her friend had been ecstatic to see a real artist’s house. According to said “friend”, all real artists didn’t worry about insignificant things such as house cleaning.

All I can say is that I must not have been too mortified after all, because that’s when the dust-bunny/cat rule of housecleaning came into being. And since the hair-ball experience, I’ve hired someone to clean every two weeks. So that’s my introduction to you guys. I’m a writer, a cat lover, and not a house cleaner. I write humorous romantic suspense novels, some of them even have a few hair-balling experiences in them.

My first single title romance, Divorced, Desperate & Delicious, will be out in December through Dorchester. I hope you’ll enjoy visiting the website and getting to know all the dirty little secrets of six writers who love murder, love romance, and love to laugh. And while I have your attention, do you have any bad housekeeping stories? I’d love to know that I’m not alone.

Crime Scene Christie