The Cats that Launched a Website

Have you ever noticed how throughout recorded time and in so many cultures, people love their pets?


Greece Cat 2 The Cats that Launched a Website


Here is a photo of a Greek cat I came across when looking for art depicting ancient Egyptian, Greek and Roman cats.  I guess this common thread bond between humans and animals is why many writers include pets in their fictional work; however, this practice is not without challenges.  In their extremely funny, How Not to Write a Novel: 200 Classic Mistakes and How to Avoid them—a Misstep-By-Misstep Guide, authors Howard Mittlemark and Sandra Newman some pointers on how to include pets in your first novel, if you must.

In their chapter on developing the hero, the authors include a section called “Love Me, Love My Cat: Wherein there is a cat.”  They strongly advise the following: writers are to refrain from naming the cat “Magnifi-cat or similar pun, after a composer (Bartok, Mahler, etc), after a writer (Hemingway, Gertrude Stein, etc.), after an ancient Greek” or naming the cat “Mr. + adjective = anatomical feature (e.g. Mr. Prickly Paws)” etc.  (pp. 66-67).

Obviously in the hands of skilled writers, pets can add a wonderful touch of ‘ordinary world’ to a drama.  One example would be the many cats and dogs included in the British Midsomer Murders film series, perhaps  building on precedent set by Alfred Hitchcock’s 1950’s era television series Alfred Hitchcock Presents.  However, since I was writing my first novel and my skill level at this point was questionable, I decided to take their advice and omit pets.  So it was with interest that I saw an article in our local newspaper, The Davis Enterprise, specifically about books and cats.  The article, which appeared on April 12, 2013 was titled, “’The Cat Who Chose to Dream’: from art comes hope” by Anne Ternus-Bellamy, and featured a beautiful drawing of two cats sleeping.


Jimmy Mirikitani The Cats that Launched a Website

It turns out that Davis psychologist Loriene Honda had seen a film documentary by Linda Hattendorf (all links and information provided at end of post) about artist of the drawing, Jimmy Tsutomu Mirikitani.  She found it moving and significant especially since both Jimmy Mirikitani and her own father Lawrence Honda had spent time in internment camps during World War II.  The film became the starting point of a creative journey for Loriene that ended with her writing The Cat Who Chose to Dream, a children’s book exploring how the power of imagination can transform tragic experiences into art and beauty.  Her book incorporates Mirikitani’s art and will be released later this year by Dixon-based Martin Pearl Publishing.

I absolutely loved so many elements of Mirikitani’s composition: his use of black, orange and icy blue, the elegant balance of solid and open forms, the fantasy elements of autumn leaves falling as if on invisible water with a fish darting away below ….  I was also intrigued that the two cats were able to sleep calmly in spite of a pronounced triangular wave or blade image in the lower left corner, and a mysterious black net that weaves around them like a shawl.  The older cat is even embracing this net, holding it with his or her paws, pulling it up close like a blanket.

The more I looked at the drawing, the more I thought about war and peace.  These cats, depicted here in such a nurturing and cozy way can also be vicious and deadly hunters by instinct.  This dichotomy becomes symbolic on some level of the mystery of our human existence here on this earth.  We struggle to reconcile such radical opposites— the power to love and preserve; the power to hate and destroy.  These tensions and themes fuel many of the great classic works of literature, but we are also caught up in these conflicts in the here and now.  We are asking, how will ‘war’ and darkness change us?  Will they render us powerless and hopeless?  Will tragedy, abuse and injustice crush us?

After I saw the drawing of Mirikitani’s cats, I decided I would actually go forward with an idea I had been considering for about a month.  I would start a website to write about the process of writing a mystery novel, and I would talk about the ‘war’ and peace that has shaped my own life.  Perhaps in doing so I would also have the transformative opportunity to create art.



Image Credits, Information and Website Links


Photograph of Greek cat by Chmouel, March 2004


The Davis Enterprise article


Image of two cats sleeping by Jimmy Tsutomu Mirikitani, date unknown.  Image accessed from Linda Hattendorf’s website about her documentary film The Cats of Mirikitani: and used with permission.


The Cat Who Chose to Dream by Loriene Honda, PhD with artwork by Jimmy Tsutomu Mirikitani and graphic design by Mark Deamer, expected out in Summer/Fall 2013.

Readers can reach Loriene Honda through

or Martin Pearl Publishing:

and for questions or pre-orders for the book.



Nothing is a Part of Something

I grew up playing with cubic geometry.  My parents had been raised during the Great Depression and this experience gave them a different perspective on what toys children ought to have.  They had played with paper, scissors, cardboard boxes, wood blocks, balls and string and this was all still going to do for the spoiled post WW II generation, as far as they were concerned.

 Paper dolls were still popular when I was a little girl.  They had beautiful paper outfits you cut out and that were supposed to stay on with little folded tabs but never did.  Sometimes I created my own smaller paper dolls that would fit into shoe box houses.  We would take the lids off the boxes, and my father would use his Swiss army knife to cut out doors and windows that folded back.  When it was time for the dolls to go to sleep in their match box beds, I could put the lid back on and it would be night inside—the rectangular space filled with shadowy darkness.

When I was in third grade, my parents bought a new Echiler home in a tract just outside the city of Orange.  The next year my father converted part of the garage on the right side of the house into an art studio.  He covered the cement floor with new yellow-white pine boards that fitted together tongue and groove, put a shelf on the wall for his oil paints and brushes, set up an easel and one rainy winter installed a small black potbellied Franklin stove for heat.  Here he would paint at night and on weekends, interesting paintings we all grew to love as we watched them take form.


Linda Vista house in Orange CA 1970 1024x655 Nothing is a Part of Something


This is one painting from that period, an untitled work on a large piece of masonite of people walking in Laguna Beach, our favorite place to go in the summer.


Paul McCoy early 1960s Ray Johnston photo 20071 1024x689 Nothing is a Part of Something


I personally enjoyed spending time watching my father paint in his studio because it was quiet and peaceful there in contrast to the rest of the house filled with five rambunctious children and their neighborhood friends.  But there was one rule if I wanted to watch: ‘no talking.’  Since this was such a hard rule and possibly to give the girls of the family something to do so we wouldn’t need to ask him so many questions, our father built us a an elegant Le Corbusier four story doll house out of wood.


Villa La Roch photo Steve Cadman wickimedia commons 1024x768 Nothing is a Part of Something


This photo is very reminiscent of looking into the open side of our doll house for some reason, possibly the configuration of the squares and rectangles.  Our new place lived at the far end of the studio on the pine floor near the Franklin stove.  It was outfitted with the beautifully crafted English Dol-Toi furniture I had purchased with my allowance over the years when I wasn’t spending it on boxes of Sugar Frosted Flakes.  I still have most of these pieces which came from a wonderful children’s store called The House of the Mouse (perhaps capitalizing on the popularity of E. B White’s Stuart Little) near the Broadway Department stores in one of the Orange County malls.  I had a blue couch and two matching living room chairs, a three inch tall china sideboard, an elegant wing chair upholstered in red Chinese silk, a bed and nightstand, dresser with mirror, upright piano and a desk with a fold-out shelf for writing tiny letters.  Everything else we needed such as blankets, curtains, dishes, rugs etc. to outfit the house all had to be made from inventive reuse of found objects and scraps of wood, cloth and paper.

Playing with dolls was an imaginative pastime, one which appeared to have had no practical usefulness until I got much older and looked back on it.  Now I can see that many of the same elements needed to write fiction were involved.  Once the home was furnished and decorated the dolls then acted out dramas composed of the issues and relationship dynamics observed in the adult world.  The space inside the doll house (the invisible air) was taken for granted—we arranged our furniture and played out our stories within it not realizing it was the ‘negative space’ of an artistic composition and also important.

I finally stopped playing with dolls in sixth grade.  When I went to high school I developed an interest in literature, perhaps drawn to the telling of stories and the creating of alternative worlds in this new form.  Some questions lingered over the years about books and plays I read during that period.  What really possessed the Macbeths to go on their murderous rampage?  Why did Mersault feel no remorse for shooting the Arab?  Why did the deck have to be so stacked against Tom Robinson?  Why did Kurtz whisper, “The horror!  The horror!”?  I could never understand.  Then one day many years later I started to understand.

One purpose of literature is to explore the literal ‘heart of darkness’ inherent in the human condition.  Consequently, if we in our experiences suffer darkness, feel grief or are tormented with insoluble questions— that is not to be counted as ‘nothing.’  That is not wasted time even if it kept us from writing.  Instead, these experiences help us understand what makes literature deeply powerful.  These experiences can make our own stories richer and more compassionate.  They can make our lives and our work one unified artistic composition.


Image Credits:

Real estate listing photograph of Orange, CA Eichler house, 1970.

Untitled oil painting by Paul McCoy, circa ealy 1960’s.  Photograph by Ray Johnston, 2007.  McCoy family private collection.

Photograph of Villa La Roche 1923 Le Corbusier, Paris by Steve Cadman, July 2007.  Wickimedia commons.


Literature references:

Macbeth by Shakespeare

The Stranger by Albert Camus

To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee

Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad