Telling Stories

I stopped writing. The act of “publishing” my writing was never any big whoop, but the act of writing itself sure had internal value. It was the great pause button in the endless parade of thoughts and feelings that marked my waking, and often sleeping, hours. It directed and diverted me. I live in the constant presence of animals and writing about them was a way to validate my sense of belonging in that world, a world of kinship with creatures. And then I stopped wanting to write about it. Like many other people (read: women), the increasing tumult of the last years has left me embedded in a place of uncomfortable irony: I live a reasonably secure and peaceful life and I also swim endless laps of anger, angst, and rage about world events and the rabid unjustness of it all. I quit telling my stories because they seemed childish in light of those rage-producing events. I quit writing

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