I HAD TO PLAY DUMB...

Jazie Miles Davis getting ready to send a tweet.

We have a beloved tabby cat called Jazzie. This three-year old feline is my shadow and my nap buddy. He also helps me write, snuggled on the chair, his head resting against my leg, his soft snores creating a soothing rhythm.

Still, I have to keep an eye on him. More than once while I was in the kitchen pouring a cup of coffee or sneaking a cookie or four, he's gotten on Twitter and begged for treats.

You see, the cat has the same genetic abnormality that my youngest son had in his teen years. A bottomless stomach. Who knew?

Calvin has Jazzie on a diet. When he runs, his stomach sways from side to side. The cat's, not Calvin's. Our furry fella has five requirements in life: food and lots of it; fresh water; a clean liter box; our bed made right away in the morning so he can take a mid-morning nap on smoothed bed linens; and his own Twitter account. Calvin grumbles that the cat has more followers than he. Hey, what can I say?

At Calvin's insistence, I've stopped buying Jazzie treats. Well, except for the emergency bag I have hidden in the drawer. You know, for special times like this week. I can't stand to celebrate alone. When I got the email that Storm's Interlude was voted Book of the Week at LASR, Jazzie got three treats. And when I got the email that my short story Those Violet Eyes was accepted into the Honky Tonk Hearts Series at The Wild Rose Press, he got four treats. Six treats hit the floor when I got notification TWRP wanted to publish my romantic suspense, Mona Lisa's Room.

So when Calvin stopped in his tracks this evening, tilted his head to the side and asked, "Does the cat look fatter to you?" Well, I had to play dumb. I mean, what choice did I have?

I'm Learning-- Vonnie Davis

Jazzie Miles Davis

Since I stepped into the writing arena late in life, my situation is much different than most of yours. I’m not trying to squeeze writing time in before I go to work at an outside job, or while the baby naps, or after the kids are finally in bed for the night. I’m retired; I can write whenever I want. My children are grown as are two of my six grandchildren. My obligations to others involve my husband and my cat.

Now here’s another difference: my husband is an author, too. Gee, what’s that like, you might ask. Actually, it’s fabulous. There’s great understanding of the time one must devote to writing and promotion. When one of us wakes up in the middle of the night, thanks to our characters or storyline, and needs to get up for a couple of hours to write, the other commiserates.

Calvin’s not writing anything right now, he’s more focused on seeing that I can write. He unloads the dishwasher and runs the vacuum. Sometimes he does the grocery shopping. And, as if he’s not perfect enough, every afternoon he makes me a cappuccino with frothy milk the way I like it. Yes, this man is a gem.

We found each other late in life. He was 70 and I was 55. We’re a match dot com success story. Our love for literature and writing brought us together—that and Cal’s sweet smile.

Do we bounce ideas off each other? To a degree. Do we read and critique each other’s work. Yes, somewhat. To be honest, we’re both so protective of the way we write, of our voice, that only half of the suggestions are taken.

We write differently, after all. Calvin writes sentences full of thunder and lightning. I write sentences full of emotion.

Calvin’s book, The Phantom Lady of Paris, was released on July 1^st. My Storm’s Interlude was released on July 15^th. Can you imagine double the excitement, double the promotion, double the craziness of book release time? We’re a little overwhelmed at the Davis household—and that’s putting it mildly.

 I’ve taught Calvin the lessons I’ve learned on blogging etiquette, and he’s a fast learner. Ladies, if you ever need a male prospective on your blog, he’s your man.

He’s taught me to stop overdoing. You see, I have a problem with saying, “No.” Then, suddenly I’m over-taxed with contest judging, mentoring, doing beta reads, blogging, tweeting and the whole smear. And I’ve no time left to write. My soul suffers. He says I have WWS—Wonder Woman Syndrome.

 I shake my head and smile. No, thinks I, the wonder women are the writers with outside jobs and children still at home. Those are the ladies I look up to and admire. Me, I’m the woman who simply takes on too much.

So, I’m learning. Learning to manage time wisely…and yes, learning to say, “No.” Why just last night when Calvin asked if I was going to fix any dinner, the word rolled off my tongue so trippingly, as Shakespeare would say, that all of you would have smiled with pride. Yup, I’m learning. What about you? Do you take on too much?