La Bête qui Erre

Wolves have been on my mind today.

I have been sick, either by psychosomaticism or the worst timing possibly, and haven’t been keeping up with my paper writing as I should have been. Worse, I forgot even to turn in a paper I had completed until late last night, something which was due monday, excused to wednesday. I worked all of my sick day yesterday writing and made eight pages.  It was arduous and unrewarding.  One would have hoped to have written twice that much in the span of my waking, though admittedly addled, hours.

Today I sat down to write a fable for my course on fairy tales and wrote a six page story in an hour and a half.  Whether or not it’s popular now, I think this demonstrates my firm affiliation with fiction, my difficulty in keeping my mind on writing scholarly and non-fiction pieces dragging the process out to double-fold time.  Fiction is just more fun to write.

Writing is what has me thinking about wolves. Wolves as a metaphor for authors, the image of the loner versus the need for community, the seeming predator honestly something fragile.  But mostly because the fable was about wolves.  I keep coming back to them as a source of empathy for the destruction of nature.  I don’t even have a dog, but the thought of wolves dying due to environmental destruction breaks my heart.  I was under the impression I was free of such cloying emotional encumbrances.  Maybe I should break down and get a dog.

When I’m less mentally disbursed and am more sure the piece is finished I’ll post a section.  I’m rather please with it.  Until then I shall think of my hypothetical future dog as a means of keeping myself from descending fully into work induced madness.

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