I have a new short story up at Another Chicago Magazine. It’s one of those stories that looks super autobiographical given it’s about a creative writing professor with a dog similar to mine and an illness I’ve experienced. But trust me, it’s not about me at all.

It’is a hard thing for writers to explain to people who don’t write fiction–especially to friends and family who are constantly looking for themselves–that even when we replicate details of our lives in our work we are not necessarily writing autobiographical fiction. “Is that supposed to be me?” my father asked about every single father in my work when not a single solitary father I wrote about, at least in my fiction, was about him, not even the father who shared his love for certain kinds of Jewish delis.

And I once had an acquaintance ask me how my sister was doing. When I told her I didn’t have a sister, she argued with me. Later I realized she’d read a story I’d written about two sisters. I suppose I should be pleased that the story was so real to her that she’d somehow remembered it not as words on a page but a day in my life. But it was also one of the odder conversations I’ve ever had. “I mean,” I’d say to her, “I think I’d remember if I had a sister.”  And she’d say that, No, she was sure I was wrong. 

Anyway, it’s true that most fiction writers, even those writing fantasy, mine their own lives for the kinds of details that give our work authenticity. And that sometimes–autofiction, for example–we actually are writing about ourselves. So I do get why people think our work is autobiographical when it isn’t. But me, my fiction is not really ever about me. I’m too boring to sustain a short story or novel. 

That’s certainly the case with this story. I am not writing me. I’m not writing about my dog. Still, unable to resist any opportunity to share her perfect face with the world, I’ve included a photo of me and my girl–the two beings this story is NOT about.