I always wanted to write a story about a dog, but I soon realized it couldn't be just any dog, not even a stray dog; it had to be a tramp's dog. A brave, fierce dog that would pull his owner along and keep him from sinking into the abyss of despair over the horrific life they shared. When I finally made up my mind to do it, I instantly knew I only wanted to write it from the dog's perspective. The dog had to tell his own story. But telling a story from a dog's point of view is difficult, and I often ended up writing utterly ridiculous things—"Like how yesterday I spent the whole night getting soaked in the rain waiting for my owner to come out of the shelter in the morning, or how today I haven't found a single bone to gnaw on, or how I like that posh little dog that always walks by with a stuck-up old lady and pretends she hasn't seen me." In short, dog things; but I knew so little about dogs, and it all felt so fake, that I ended up throwing what I had written into the wastebasket.
I felt weary and ashamed of myself for having wasted over an hour writing all that nonsense, but then a light bulb went off in my brain and I knew that what actually shamed me was not having been honest and brave enough to write about what I really wanted to write about. So I picked up a blank sheet of paper again and began to write about a child—a boy of about five, the son of a tramp. A lonely, sad child who had been forced to grow up before his time, yet was still innocent enough not to realize the horrific life he had—"Like how yesterday my daddy and I were freezing because some mean men kicked us out of our porch, or how today is my birthday and we were going to go to the park where they have trampolines to jump on, but my daddy was in a really bad mood because his head hurt a lot, or how a blonde girl, with a very long braid and the sneakers that I like, asked me what was wrong with my daddy, and just as I was about to explain to her that he always gets that way when he managed to buy a bottle of wine the day before, her mommy grabbed her hand and, as she led her away, I heard her tell her not to talk to street children like me." In short, tramp-children things; but after a while, the gaze reflected through the longings, fantasies, and fears of that child became so grim and bleak that my own eyes began to well with tears, and I had to stop because I could no longer see what I was writing. I wiped away my tears, and with my nose still running, I ended up throwing what I had written into the wastebasket once again.
I felt depressed and a bit ashamed of myself for being so volatile and childish, allowing myself to be affected by those sappy, melodramatic bits of garbage I had just made up. But then another light bulb went off in my brain, and I knew that what actually shamed me was not having been honest and brave enough to write about what I really wanted to write about—about myself. So I turned on the TV and started watching a movie on Netflix
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