The real question is how do they do it all without opposable thumbs?

To practice my writing skills I sit down most nights, pick out a writing prompt from a collection I have and type up a paragraph or two with the hopes that something will spark.  This forces me to write fiction because like all people who fiddle around with writing I have dreams of one day traveling to a remote cabin in the wilderness with no tv, internet or Tyra Banks, strapping myself to a chair and willing myself to write a novel.  Why a novel, you ask?  Because I am currently annoyed with this whole memoirs trend that is happening right now.  Holy Cats, there are a lot of memoirs in the bookstores.  Every newspaper book section I read has twice as many memoirs as novels and most of those are written by kids in their 20s.  I don't know that I want to read the life story of someone who can barely remember a time before Facebook.

Looking over these bits that I have written I've noticed a familiar devise - I write about animals acting human.  Not animals who can talk but still act like animals*, but animals who have BBQs and pay taxes.  Like the movie Fantastic Mr. Fox.  Gosh, that was a cool movie.  So as I was noting that I keep going back to this it dawned on me that I've been doing it for decades - going all the way back to my earliest stories in elementary school.  In high school instead of passing notes I would write up one page stories involving water buffalo at a costume ball or jack rabbits learning how to knit and pass those to friends.  Thus confirming your belief that I was a weird child.  This could mean a couple of different things.  1.)  I haven't progressed at all as a writer since age eight or 2.) the idea of animals doing something human has always struck me as really funny. 

To be brave (These writing exercises have reminded me that I'm much more comfortable reading fiction than writing it) I thought I'd share an example:

Bart did not like his pants.  They fit oddly.  They were too long in the leg and too short in the waist and the hole for his tail pinched.  He had purchased them in a hurry without giving too much consideration for comfort because he was under a time crunch. At 11 the next morning he was to stand as best man in the wedding of his oldest friend Mark to Maureen, an accountant who collected angel figurines.  Pants were not optional.  Bart would look at pictures of his grandparents and long for the days when suits were not worn by wolves.  They could roam the land free from the restraint of tailor-made attire, letting their feet and fur breathe.  It wasn’t until, as myth told it, a certain wolf decided to dress in sheep’s clothing to get near his prey that clothes became all the rage.  First it was sheep skin, next it was sports coats.  Hats.  Shoes, sometimes with spats.  Gloves when it was cold.  Ties and pocket squares.  Dresses for the ladies with sashes and trim.  All of these layers of gabardine and tweed seemed, at best superfluous and at worst, an affront to the essence of wolfness.  

*This is another trend I simply cannot handle - non-animated movies with humans and talking animals.  They make me want to throw sharp objects.