Sometimes her silences make me feel like I’m underwater, reaching upward through murky dark. My extended fingers reaching for a surface, trying to break through the invisible hydrogen bonds that separate air from sea.
January, or “Jani,” was born a genius; at three years old, she could read and calculate mathematics in her head. But if she didn’t receive constant mental stimulation, she could succumb to violent meltdowns.
Which is what telling stories is, if you think about it – attempting to leave behind something that wasn’t there before. Arranging words in the order in which they belong, even before you knew that these words, in this order, existed.
Show and tell is theater. As writers, we can’t help but love it. Like children, we harbor indeterminate, odd wonders. The idea that slips inside a pocket. The fringe of inspiration. We collect words like talismans – tessellation, shambolic, caducity – and cup them in our palms.
Author Teresa Rhyne’s memoir, The Dog Lived (And So Will I) tells of the cancer battles fought by both her and her rescue beagle Seamus. Funny and poignant, the book speaks volumes about the love humans feel toward their pet companions…and vice versa.