Day of the Dogs or My Writing Method

One of the regular questions I get asked is what is your usual writing day like? So here we go...

I usually get up at 4 a.m., no alarm clock, just wake up and go downstairs, slam down a cup of microwaved coffee from the day before while I make a fresh pot. Then I hang out with the dogs. This one pictured is Olive, our weimeraner. She's seventy pounds of determination, very fast, very much in touch with her inner wolf. Every morning when I let her out she races outside and barks at the raccoons who live in the giant fir tree out back. She hates those guys. Squirrels she chases, but raccoons elicit this deep, guttural growl that is pure killer instinct. She actually caught one once, a big one she cornered against the fence, sunk her teeth into its right leg and gave it a shake. The raccoon did not like this. Not at all. Neither did I. I grabbed Olive by the collar and dragged her away while the raccoon hissed, claws bared and limped away.

Anyway, where was I? Okay, once Olive and the new guy, Archie, a border terrier, come back in, we lie around on the floor in a pile for about twenty minutes, just listening to each other breathe. I respect dogs. They're ravening beasts that have adopted the guise of manners for practicality and a meal... just like us.  Then, coffee made, my dog bonding accomplished, I have a fresh cup of coffee while I read what I wrote the day before, making changes and getting into the mental space that I left the day before. Then I write for a few hours while the dogs chase each other around the yard.

If there's reincarnation I want to come back as a dog. I want to write a novel one day from the standpoint of a dog, but not one of those wimpy, wisdom-of-the-pooch books. I did a short story for Vice magazine a few years ago called "Bad Dog," which was a start. Take a read. Woof!

Bo Barks at BIG JOURNALISM

I started a regular feature today, the Bo Chronicles, at Andrew Brietbart's Big Journalism site. The series will catalogue life with President Obama, as told from the viewpoint of his dog, Bo, the smartest pooch in the world, and a secret conservative. Fun ensues.

Here's the start...

Bow-wow. You can call me Bo. I’m President Shoutout’s family mutt, a Portuguese water dog with curly black hair. My real name isn’t Bo, but I’m not telling you my real one. Bo is fine. It’ll do anyway. Took the White House brain trust four months to come up with it — you wouldn’t believe the names they actually considered. Let’s just say that “Alinsky” was a contender until Axelrod said “why don’t you just name it ‘Arafat’ and kiss off flyover country for 2012?” Yeah, he called me “it.” Axelrod’s a real sweetheart. Barry’s chief political advisor, which means he spent the whole presidential campaign sending candygrams to the press corps so they wouldn’t do their job. He could have accomplished the same thing with a Hershey bar stolen from an orphan’s Halloween bag. I got his number. Axelrod smells like cabbage and tries to kick me when Barry’s not looking.

read the rest at the link

BAD DOG

Last month I did a short story, "Bad Dog," for VICE magazine. It's the story of a dog who'd probably rule the world if he had opposable thumbs.