Is "into" a preposition, and is it capitalized in a title anyway?
I haven't walked the dog in a while. There's a subset of TMAC stories where the main character is walking the dog (or driving with a dog, or watching a dog be decapitated). I want you to know that I wrote most of these
before the arrival of our own noble beast, Shiloh. Do I need to go over the relationship of fiction to its autobiographical material again?
We have a dog that I walk at 5am. She is white and--like Jimmy Hendrix's white guitar--takes on the color of any light you shine on her--hence silvery white when we walk under the moon (coincidentally, Shiloh is also turned upside down and restrung, as I am left-handed, but that is where her similarity to a Stratocaster ends). I also have a 9 year-old daughter, as my character's often do. But these are all just jumping off places or, more correctly, anchor places, spots of reality I don't have to figure out, so I can be that much more free in making-shit-upness.
By the by of nothing, I'm going to be teaching my first writing class this next year, through Petaluma Parks&Rec. It's been years since I've even sat in a classroom, much less in front of one, so I am excited and nervous. As my father used to say: If you want to find out if you are an angel, you must go to the abrupt edge and leap. The Parks&Rec schedule hasn't even been published yet, but if anyone has read this far, and wants to know more, stay tuned here, or drop me a line and I'll make sure you get all the info when I have it.
He opened the door into silver: a fresh-minted clear blue world, clanging and cold against his legs and chest under his robe, against his ankles above his wooly slippers. Moby the dog shook, jingling his tags as if signaling to the five am moonlight, then ran ahead, down the steps, and squatted down to piss on the front lawn, his whiteness a hunkered specter made of silver now, no not silver but the blue white of a tight stretched drum head.
He’s a role model for me, Rodger thought, so happy to be up. Those bumper stickers about wanting to be the person my dog thinks I am are all wrong. I want to be the person I think my dog is.
He padded down the steps and stood with his arms crossed, warming himself and watching Moby, who was staring at him from where he squatted, a white, hairy frog on the front lawn.
“Come on,” he whispered, because they were right under the bedroom window where Rodger’s wife slept, but urgent, because that’s how you talk to a dog. Rodger remembered trying to teach this to his daughter when she was young, maybe eight or nine, that you needed to make your voice urgent but not angry to get the dog to pay attention. Lindsey would stand in the middle of their street holding the dog’s leash, first whining the Moby’s name, them yelling it and stomping her foot, and all the time, Moby would sit there staring at him. Taking your place in the world begins with getting the dog’s attention.
Moby stood up, jingled his tags again at the pre-dawn blue world and trotted back up the steps to go back inside, to his warm bed. Rodger followed.