Dear Student,

What is writing? Well, what isn’t writing? Consider this: it is possible that every thought you’ve ever had is a form of “writing.” Or maybe that’s not it at all.

Confused yet? That’s because writing is hard, but sometimes fun. Really, sometimes writing sucks. Or does it? Here are some other details: it is time-consuming, it gets gritty, ideas are elusive. Writing makes you learn truths about yourself that you wish you were still able to deny.

And coming up with topics to write about? Well, basically you can write about anything. Everything. It’s overwhelming! Nevertheless, you must pick a specific subject about which to write. You will write about this subject. Or maybe you will combine a bunch of topics together and write a big, sloppy mess of words. Or maybe you’ll go all postmodern and write about a subject you will never actually write about.

Still confused? You’re probably stuck. If you’re ever stuck, that’s normal. You might begin with a basic (a very, very basic) question: what are your interests? Also, too, consider your influences: What political writers do you admire? How do you compare when writing the “prosaic narrative”? Have you ever considered writing a blog?

Okay, you’re still stuck. Examine the topics below for inspiration:

1. Write an essay where you explore your inability to keep other people’s secrets. Describe the moments where you have blurted information indiscreetly. Describe the inner wrestlings of your psychology when someone tells you something in confidence. Length: 2 pages, otherwise you’re likely to reveal a secret you are supposed to be keeping.

2. Write an essay where you discuss the extent to which Jessica Simpson’s weight has anything to do with how much money you have in your bank account.

3. Write a self-indulged essay about any of the following: your pets; how you are currently obsessed with zillow; the PhD application process; the possibility of moving from Los Angeles and how you really, really love Los Angeles; your endlessly talented and adorable husband; how you’d like to be remembered as someone’s favorite teacher.

4. Write fiction. Actually, rewrite one of the few pieces you’ve been working on for, like, two years. Submit to a blog. Ask Jeremy, an editor of this blog, if you can submit fiction.
“Fiction?” he will say.
“Yes,” you’ll answer.
“Fiction?” he will say.

5. Write an essay about how cute this picture is:

6. Whatever you do, do not write an essay on politics or philosophy. You may, however, attempt a prosaic narrative. Or some type of parody. Sarcasm usually works.

7. Come up with your own essay topic. Submit below.

-Chalk marked our renter Jason’s car tires.
-Left notes on Jason’s car, my husband’s car, our neighbor Joe’s car, and in our mailbox (Allegedly. More on these notes later).
-Has shined her brights on various visiting friends to make them aware that they were parking on a “permit only” street.
-Has taken a picture of our friend Cory and announced herself as “the sheriff” of the street.

When we first moved in, we were happy that our very rambunctious dog Abigail had a nice big yard where she could run. She’s a runner. And a barker, I’ll admit. Abi is a gorgeous, brown, energetic, large-ish dog who can sleep-in until nine or ten a.m., which is nice for us on the weekends. Imagine our shock when a note (sans envelope) appeared in our mailbox regarding our dog. These are the details which make the note suspicious:

-A cut-and-pasted “City of Los Angeles.org” official logo on the top left (extra pixilated)
-Various misspellings and other grammatical errors
-The signing party—the Filion Street Homeowners Association (as homeowners on Filion Street, we were never aware such an organization existed)

Here is a transcript of the letter, verbatim:

ANIMAL NOISE COMPLAINTS

The Los Angeles County Department of Animal Care and Control, a animal noise complaints- including barking dog Has been file against your animal.

Your animal has disrupt the peace and tranquility of residential neighborhoods.

Complaint begins a formal proceeding against the owner(s) of the animal(s). If necessary, an unresolved complaint will be turned over to the city attorney of the city where the problem exists or the District Attorney for possible prosecution.

Filion st Homeowners your dog keep us up all night
We have complaint before and now we are going to ask the City to remove your pets. We have the barking and times and hours on tape.

I’m not writing this to prove that my dog doesn’t bark all night, because that’s not necessary. She does not. She sleeps peacefully at the foot of our bed every night. Her barking habits usually involve romps through the backyard, squirrel chases, and loud addresses to arriving guests and other dogs walking by with their owners—almost exclusively during daylight hours and never for hours on end.

I mean, no one’s going to “remove” our dog. We are good dog parents. But the “barking and times and hours” were on tape? Clearly, we were being watched.

I would like to address, specifically, the mysterious and confusing (and incorrect) syntactical arrangements in this note. We were certain the city couldn’t have produced something so unofficial, and would have definitely put the note in an envelope with some postage. But if it was the Sheriff, we also couldn’t understand the masquerade. Why not just sign her name? If one is to pretend the position of a city official, shouldn’t one also adopt (i.e. copy) the professional verbiage of the official? This note exhibited a serious lack of professionalism, especially since it tried to appear that it came from both The City and the surreptitious Filion Street Homeowner’s Association.

We’ve talked directly to the Sheriff a few times. Once was after she called the city on us — allegedly– for what turned out to be improper tree trimming. A few days after an exasperating visit from a chagrined inspector (who said that “a neighbor” had called on many other houses on the street as well), John worked in the yard, trimming the trees to the city’s specifications. The Sheriff stopped to comment about how much better the yard looked. I thought the trees looked kind of bald.

The Sheriff is medium height, short-haired, tom-boyish. I have never seen anyone come over to visit her. She wears surf sweatshirts and Dockers. If anything, she’s incredibly “Cali,” a beachy cowboy local. She drives a Hummer; she saunters around so…western-like that we giggle to ourselves. Could she have written the letter? I had to wonder—was it really the Sheriff who was leaving these notes? And if it was, what motivated her? And did she not have a proofreader?

I started to watch the Sheriff: when she arrived home from work and walked from her car to her door, when she went out with her own dog (yes, an occaisional barker) on the weekends. I bought John a novelty t-shirt that says “Neighborhood Watch: We’re Gonna Get You Suckas.”

And I started to sleuth, to eliminate other possibilities. I asked our neighbor directly next door, a very sweet Korean woman if our dogs bothered. “No, no. They’re never a problem.” She smiled and we talked orchids. I asked Karen and her husband, a few doors down. Karen didn’t even know we had dogs. I asked Emily, who has lived on our street for fifty-seven years. Emily wanted to discuss another dog who had been barking during the night further down the block.

We surmised that it had to be the Sheriff, on one of her persecutin’ rants. But what’s so strange about her complaints is that they’re unfounded. It’s like she wants so badly to be the Sheriff that she makes up issues to “patrol.”

Here’s one more example for context:

A friend Cory was coming over for a bit on a fall evening. On the drive over he noticed a truck speeding behind him, so he moved to the slower lane and the truck passed. Later, he ended up behind the same truck at a nearby intersection, and trailed it up our street. When Cory looked for a place to park, the truck’s driver positioned the car so that its brights lit on Cory and out stepped the Sheriff.

“You don’t live here,” she said.

“Yeah,” replied Cory. “I’m coming over to visit my friends who live there.” He pointed to our house.

“Well, I’ve written down your license plate, sir. I don’t like the way that you drive.” And then she snapped his picture with a camera she held.

Cory arrived at our door a bit exasperated and feeling that awkwardness that comes when you are blamed for something you didn’t do. I think he was kinda traumatized.

Since I wrote this piece, the Sheriff has moved away. On a recent Saturday, she carried box after box out to her Hummer while we watched slyly from the window. A promotion perhaps? Did she buy a condo? It is a little bit true that I miss her. She gave us a story to tell, a mystery to solve. It’s the end of an era here on Filion Street.

At the bottom of our driveway there is a Neighborhood Watch sign on a sidewalk pole. You know the one, with the little thief-looking caricature. Strangers on the street are to receive warning from this sign—but there’s no more Sheriff to enforce the watch.

And no more notes left on anyone’s cars either.