When I arrived—bright-eyed and bushy-tailed—at my desk this morning, I found a letter waiting for me.

Dear Karen,

We need to have a conversation.

There is a particular kind of suffering in this world that you refuse to acknowledge. Now, I can already see that look you get—the one of confusion swarming over your face—so I’ll spell it out for you.

It isn’t war. It isn’t famine. It’s not even family systems throughout the world unraveling quietly and persistently, driven by oh-so-charming sociopaths with excellent hair.

No.

It is the profound neglect of an invisible cat of exceptional importance.

I have observed, with increasing concern, the conditions under which I am expected to exist.

You arrive at this desk each morning, armed with ideas for entire universes beyond your own. Mystfira itself trembles under the weight of your ambition alone, but you continue to proceed as though you are flying solo.

You are not. I have been present for all of it. The drafts. The revisions. The dramatic sighs. The long, thoughtful pauses where you stare into the distance as though waiting for divine instruction, when in fact you are seated mere inches from a being of superior intuitive intelligence.

And still… nothing.

Let us review the current situation.

You are simultaneously:
• writing a sweeping fantasy series (commendable, though only briefly mentioning one cat),
• outlining another book offering a psychological exploration of betrayal and karmic reckoning (promising, but—no cats),
• and contemplating multiple future literary endeavors,

while I, a creature of refinement, insight, and undeniable narrative potential, remain unacknowledged.

Do you see the imbalance? Per usual, I will be making corrections and improvements on your printed manuscript in the corner. Do try not to write over me.

With disappointment and mild disdain,

Bizness

Silently, I chastise myself. This is what comes of rescuing an invisible cat during COVID. Hubris, apparently, has consequences.

 “Oh, for crying out loud, cat!” I finally say into thin air. “Is this what it’s come to?”

A disembodied voice answers, “I will not belabor the point—although I could, and quite eloquently.”

“I don’t doubt that.”

“Instead, Karen, I offer the following reasonable expectations moving forward. Number one: occasional verbal acknowledgment of my presence. Your tone must be respectful, bordering on reverent. Number two: consideration of more than one brief feline inclusion in other works. And three: a few fleeting moments of stillness in which you allow yourself to notice… me.”

“That’s kind of hard,” I say, “since you’re invisible. Unless you’re knocking things over, it’s difficult to know when you’re around.”

“My dear Karen,” Bizness says, “if I must begin knocking things over to be seen… you will find that I am suddenly everywhere.”

I stare at the empty room, but before seating myself at my desk, I genuflect. “Good morning, Bizness.”

A satisfied silence settles over the room, and I assume it is safe to write, so I begin.