Origins of the Banzai Cat

A kitten once asked me while I was blogging: "Why do you write?"

I told the little furball: "I suppose you should better ask, why do I read?"

I don't exactly remember when I, a little kit, first became enamoured with the written word. I do remember when I first became a voracious reader at age 7, daily raiding the school library for books to read.

I wasn't a kitten prodigy in any case. Unlike [identity-protected] who managed to memorize the first children's book she read around age 3 or 4 and started on Shakespeare a little afterwards, I only dove into books of my own age group.

I suppose I could attribute my reading hunger to a need for stories other than that I found in my own life. I remember not being able to tear myself away from the television to do my homework because I couldn't bear not knowing how a particular episode of a television show ended. (Until Mama Cat started sweeping us away from in front of the television anyway...)

Anyway, this need to read tapered off after a year or so and I moved on to other stuff that kits usually do at that age. I still read, but mostly comic books. I took in the usual lot: X-Men, Spiderman, the Legion of Super-Heroes, Justice League of America, yadda-yadda. My favorites then were little-known titles about kids with super-powers: Power Pack, the New Mutants and the like.

As comics go, my need for stories continued but the pressure to know the ending of these never-ending series was unbearable and I was forced to discontinue such efforts. (Thank goodness for the advent of mini-series and trade paperbacks!)

Then, around age 12, with a group of friends that were into RPGs, I discovered the fantasy genre through the world of Margaret Weis and Tracy Hickman's Dragonlance. I thought then it was a lovely idea to have a story prolonged to three books, the much-maligned 'trilogy'. From there, it was a small step to Terry Brooks' Shannara and this introduction to the speculative genre, like the librarian introducing me to the a newer section of the library, quickly overwhelmed me with all I books I just had to read.

And that, young cat, is why I read.

As for writing: strangely enough, I can't remember when the ideas first started to raise their voices in my head. But I suppose that I was like any kit with an active imagination. Remember how you used to play with your toys and make up stories like the ones you watched on television or read in books while playing? I did the same.

I suppose what with all the stories I was reading, it was inevitable that these somehow begat offsprings in my head. And rather than let those ideas to just multiply in my head, I thought it would be more prudent to let them out to the world around me, like offspring of animals finally let free in the wild.

I remember my first novel-idea, about a boy living in an apocalyptic future where the world had slowed down in its axis due to some future catatrosphe. Despite the uncertain science, it was an interesting experience-- something I look back on with sentimentality-- as I tried to pen the story via pencil and notebook. (Unfortunately, cats hate using the typewriter with our too big paws and there were no computers around then... Ooops, should I have admitted that?).

I admit that I'm not a true-blue writer with the need, the urge-- no, the eternally undying torment to foment his mad scribblings to the world. I suppose that explains my feeling of being a charlatan, prancing around and declaring that one would be penning a story.

After all, despite the general meager reputation of writers (and despite the Western misconception that writing a book is easy), writers-- more so published authors-- still hold a certain mystique for the rest of us mere non-writing felines.

That's when the kitten said, "No, I meant why do you write on your blog? As if anyone cares anyway."

Young whippersnapper, I grumbled and sent the young cat tumbling with a paw.