What Writers Do

One of my students, Michael, gave me a perfect example, in class this week, of what writers do. He was driving along the road with his boyfriend and saw a sign, "Animal Hospice!"

"Quick! Quick!" he yelled. "Drive in there!" 

Reluctantly the boyfriend complied, resigning himself to yet another of Michael's writerly instincts.

At the animal hospice, the pair was given a tour of the facilities, where numerous dying dogs lay around on living room floors, sighing the sighs of the resigned and hopeless. Nutty old ladies periodically cornered them, wanting to give lectures on chiropractic, display their paintings, and engage the gentlemen in the worship of Sebastian, a long-dead pit bull that had been a hospice favorite. 

"We're very selective here," explained their hostess. "We only take dogs, horses, and poultry . . . and never, NEVer, NEVER a well animal. Only sick ones. As you can see."

My point is, you never know what odd adventures lie in wait when you follow that instinct to see the odd, unusual, and unwell. The characters you meet are priceless because, as everyone in Santa Fe knows all too well: truth is stranger than fiction.