The writer faced an uncomfortable truth: his narrative was out of control. Characters he’d deleted from his first novel were demanding placement in his second. The cat, a prime example. He’d not intended to write a cat story— this was supposed to be a sequel to his mystery—but the critter kept showing up on his pages, screeching, demanding breakfast, scratching furniture, and finally, escaping through the front door someone had left open. And the detective had yet to make an appearance.
But the cat. When it eventually returned home, no one was there to feed it. They were out trolling the neighborhood, looking for the damn cat. Henry’s cat. So that Henry, the youngest of the three children, an afterthought, wouldn’t throw a fit.
Okay. The writer was writing what he knew. That happened. But this, of course, was fiction.
The cat was multiplying. “It” turned out to be a “she” and when she’d first appeared at the Olsen’s front door—oh Momma can I keep it? Puh-leese?— she’d apparently already been knocked up. Can you say that about cats? Maybe he’ll google “slang for pregnant cats.” And now, her family was looking for her—all except Buzz, the big brother character, who had gone to a buddy’s house and was currently smoking weed in the back yard, though he had, in all fairness, first asked about a missing gray tabby, which now was not missing, but was back home giving birth on the front porch rug to three kittens. Front porch because she could not really get inside without human assistance.
Unless she could. Should he veer into magical realism?
This could be an inciting incident: Henry wanting to keep the kittens; Mom and Dad with different ideas. Damn. This wasn’t a children’s story. He really needed that detective.
He should have outlined, kept tighter control, especially over big sister, Tippi. While walking down Maple Street, asking about a striped cat—he should find a name for this cat—she, Tippi had just met up with boyfriend, Brian. Teenage girls were unfathomable—look at his own daughter—but he felt confident with Tippi, as she, true to her name, had tipped onto the couch in the living room that Brian’s family had recently vacated for Church. Church—that was good. He was on a roll with Tippi and Brian there on the sofa Sunday morning, marinating in their hormonal juices.
Wait. Did he want a teen-age sex scene while Mom and Dad were still on the cat-search, while the cat was home licking her newborns, while Brian’s parents were off praying, and while Buzz was, well, buzzed?
Why not? He guessed this was as good a time as any.
Mom, however, was walking down Maple Street, heading toward Tippi and Brian, ringing doorbells and peering in windows. On a nearby street, Dad was looking over gates into back yards, calling kitty kitty kitty. Was that too creepy? Looking in windows and over gates? Well, yes. But Mom and Dad would do anything to find a cat if it kept their four-year-old from tantruming. Where was he anyway? Mom and Dad, each thinking Henry was with the other, had lost track of their youngest. The writer himself had to search for Henry.
He found him on the porch, ecstatic over the kittens, busy naming them: Duck Duck Goose.
Meanwhile, Mom walked up the path to the front door of 1212 Maple Street. About the same time, Dad, following his nose, opened the gate to a back yard on Ash Street where Buzz and his buddy were conversing on the meaning of life.
He was writing a family drama. God help him: literary fiction. Where was that detective? He was not sure which thread to follow. But a sudden clarity washed over him: Lucy. He’d call mama cat Lucy.
Lucy took charge of the narrative She was hungry, famished even, and meowed loudly at the front door. Which Henry opened, as Henry was wont to do. In fact, he may have been the original door-opening culprit.
Lucy left her darlings on the rug and went right to her food bowl. She’d feed her babies later, after she’d eaten, groomed, and disappeared under a bed for a nap. The writer also sorted his priorities. He should make a sandwich. Have a nap. Then he’d outline the damn memoir that was pestering him. The detective from his first novel, who was busy napping, rolled over onto his back, and began to snore.
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About "Second Novel is the Hardest": A longer version of "Second Novel is the Hardest" was first published in Trash Cat Lit, the Feline Flash Pop-Up Issue, Winter 2025. I thank the editor, JP Relph, for the publication, and for the ways the journal supports its writers.
Shira Musicant has not written a second novel, nor has she written a first. Her short stories and flashes are scattered throughout various literary journals and have been honored with four Pushcart Prize nominations. She lives in Santa Barbara with a black cat named Binx, eight chickens and her husband.
Shira Musicant
