An ASJA colleague’s piece in the Christian Science Monitor.

Have you seen this one in The New York Times?

Does our cat think she’s a dog … or does she simply like to play fetch?

Rosie, our seven-month-old kitty, has a little white mouse toy she will bring to me or my son, drop, and wait for one of us to throw it. She’ll fetch it, bring it back, drop it and do this a number of times before she tires. As we play, I say to Travis, “Does Rosie think she’s a dog? Or does she just like fetch?”

Travis says, “I think she thinks she’s a dog.”

And when I call her in a high sort of voice, trilling, “Rosita!” she comes running.

A cat in dog’s clothing?

I was telling this story to my friend Elle and we got into, What makes us what we are? Are we who we are because we believe that’s who we are? Are we who’ve we been told we are? Or do we explode stereotypes, move beyond who we think we are, because something else calls?

Rosie doesn’t know that cats don’t play fetch or come when called. Our other cat doesn’t play fetch, doesn’t come when called. He might grace us with a glance in his ever so aloof way, but that’s about it.

All of us have roles that take hold, that seem to be more important: how we make a living, our obligations to our partners and children and pets. But what about our obligation to ourselves, to keeping the spark of creativity alive? It may mean writing, drawing, baking, playing music, lo que sea. Whatever it is we are drawn to do, whatever it is we think about daily, shouldn’t we be doing it?

We’ve all seen people in which the spark has gone out. Their eyes look dull, lifeless. The spark has been extinguished. They have forgotten about the need to blow on the spark to stir it into a blaze. Or they have decided to worship the money god or the god of beauty, and forgot about their precious creativity that isn’t quantitative, isn’t showy.

Rosie does remember she’s a cat. She remembers to huddle when she eats her meals on the floor under the old porcelain and wood island that reminds me of my grandmother’s kitchen, remembers to laze in the sun on her bed in the front window where she also watches the great outdoors. And she remembers to lie on Travis’ chest in the morning to urge him up. But she also knows there are other things she enjoys that are beyond cat-dom.

http://www.chicagotribune.com/features/chi-0601190365jan20,1,4799898.story?ctrack=1&cset=true

If you’re not sick of the Frey fiasco yet (and obviously I’m not), read this.

Interesting. Glad Nan Talese put it back on Frey’s shoulders.

In it, a quote by Tom Wolfe:

“Let me tell you something—George Orwell, probably back in the 1950’s, wrote that autobiography is the most outrageous form of fiction. It always has been, and probably always will be, and usually there’s no blogger to catch them,” said Mr. Wolfe. “It has nothing to do with the New Journalism.

“I mean, if it’s gonna be called ‘nonfiction,’ I don’t think there should be any doubt about it,” he added.

Here’s the piece in The Observer.