Sign Special — LYRIK · December 13 – December 31

Lyric then, December thirteenth through December thirty-first, nineteen days of the year, and the sign of amethyst, a violet crystal the color of the last light before dark, of ink thinned with twilight, of the aurora standing over snow fields and writing in green and purple across the sky, whose mood is creative wonder, which is a polite way of saying this dog cannot watch a perfectly ordinary afternoon without quietly improving the plot.

Lyric is the storyteller of the pack, and it runs on the play instinct, which means a Lyric does not simply experience events, it casts them.

The walk is a chapter, the visitor is a character, and the postman is a recurring role with a story arc.

Its gift is creativity.

The Lyric dog is creative, expressive, famous for its running commentary, and holds one unshakable article of faith: that life should be slightly more interesting than strictly necessary.

While the rest of the pack is content to chase the ball, the Lyric is already narrating the chase in the past tense with a subplot about the ball's difficult childhood because to a Lyric, that is precisely what a morning is for.

Now, the other side of the page, because this paper tells the whole truth.

This is a dog with more beginnings than a library.

It has started its memoirs four times in four different genres and finished none of them.

Turned the arrival of the mail into a three-act drama with an intermission for biscuits, and once delivered a twenty-minute saga about a squirrel that by the final act had acquired a kingdom, a rival, and a tragic flaw.

The sign's great temptation is inspiration, and its standing warning is a serious one delivered kindly.

Beware of falling in love with unfinished ideas, of collecting first chapters the way other dogs collect sticks until the shelf of brilliant openings leans against a wall with no house behind it.

Under stress, the imagination scatters into distraction, and its one true companion fear is being ordinary.

Not failure, which it could survive, since failure is at least a story, but the terrible suspicion that somewhere there is a smaller, duller version of its life being lived by a dog with no sequels planned.

Its vice is escapism.

Its virtue is imagination.

The same open door, drifting or discovering.

Its official motto is the whole biography in two words and an open door.

What if? And its favorite human excuse is the motto's apologetic cousin, which tells you everything.

I got distracted.

To a Lyric, the motto is the invitation, and the excuse is the map of everywhere the invitation led.

Its natural habitat is the coffee shop.

Any corner table with good light and passing characters.

Any café where the espresso steams, the pastries turn over, and every stranger at the counter has the decency to look like the beginning of a chapter.

Its lucky object is the fountain pen.