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A fictional travelogue; four minutes to read.

Everyone is a part-time psychopath about something. For some people, it’s career, money or religion. For others, it’s dark chocolate. For me, I’d kill to be a better writer.

I tried once to write a book as good as The Art of Racing in the Rain. I have a literary crush on the book’s narrator, a dog named Enzo. In addition to speaking and writing exceptionally well for a dog, Enzo is a philosopher of life and living. He sniffs around for his better self, considers the life’s meaning and not incidentally rescues his master. I could use a little rescuing.

When five years, two months and four days ago my yellow lab Magellan died from old age, I turned to writing fiction to fill up the empty pages in my life. In the dark hours, creative writing—the act of telling lies on paper—takes my mind traveling to a world where dogs never die.

As I type out paragraphs, I’m going with my readers to other cultures, happier countries, better times. In my storybook worlds, I make up thrilling romances and crushing realities, heartthrobs and heartbreaks. Always, there’s a supply of dog biscuits.

But books and biscuits don’t mysteriously just appear. They are bought with hard work, time on task. Like a dog learning a new trick. My book doesn’t exist.

Because I’m an author-in-waiting, a pretender, an imposter, I’m headed to the American Writers Museum. Headed down Michigan Avenue south of Chicago’s Riverwalk on a windy February day, the air smells cold, clammy, grouchy. Nature’s leaf blower sweeps away the litter from Millennium Park.

In need of inspiration, I scan the wall of famous authors. The Chicago nexus with authorship is as strong as its stockyards and its skyscrapers. Carl Sandburg’s poetry Chicago Poems defined his career. Chicago native Ernest Hemingway told us that his childhood neighborhood had “wide lawns and narrow minds.”

Did they think their greatness was great? Did they bulldoze their brains, burying their self-doubts? Did they keep secret journals filled with frustrations and failures?

The museum has all the modal elements of a writer’s den. It’s as silent as an unwritten book. As quiet as parchment drying. I wish it smelled like a used bookstore instead of an accountant’s waiting room.

This morning in my hotel room, I chose a dark green tweed blazer, grey turtleneck and khaki slacks. In my mirrored reflection, I see an author at the Aspen Literary Festival or perhaps a literature professor at his classroom podium.

In the museum, from behind me I hear a gruff voice ask, “Is your name on the author’s wall?” Turning, I see an elderly, shaggy-haired gentleman with penetrating brown eyes. They’re as intense and focused as a dog’s. His head is cocked slightly as if sizing me up.

“No, sorry,” I reply. “I’m not an author. It would be nice. I’d like to be. Maybe someday.”

“That’s OK. My mistake.” He points to the dog-eared journal under my arm, “Write something in it, you’ll be a writer then.”

Red-faced, I stutter, “I do, but I’m not any good. I just write for myself.”

“Then write about being mediocre,” he barks. “Write what you know.”

Looking for the exit, he turns in place like a dog curling up for a nap.

Click here for more short stories set in Illinois.