Lots of writers fear and resent the new interactive culture of the Internet, which has taken the ancient role of the writer and turned it on its ear. We no longer write alone, and we are often the last to understand what we are writing about. Time and again, I take pictures or write words or books and only later, through e-mail, readings, Facebook, other messages, do I understand what it is I am writing about. This happens so often to me that I no longer consider it a big deal, yet it is. It has happened mostly with animals – Orson, Rose, Lenore,  Izzy in particular, and now, and to my complete surprise, a chicken call Meg.

I feed off of my readers and sometimes, they feed off of me. Some stories – Rose’s death, Simon, Izzy’s hospice work,  my Ghost Story, the fox attack, Meg – light them up, and then me, and  we pass this enthusiasm and energy back and forth. This is not the way many writers, especially older ones,  were taught to work or expect to work, but this new use of technology increasingly shapes my ideas, writing and work. It is a powerful synergistic energy, and while I don’t wish to be a slave to it, it is important to me.

We get the animals we need, and the stories too, I suppose. I see that this is happening again.  Meg has lit up the skies with her explorative adventures, but it wasn’t until one reader – Kat – posted on my Facebook Page that “we are all Megs” that I sort of got that she had become one of those stories. This hen has touched a deep nerve, much as Rose did, and especially among women. As Rose was, she is a symbol. I noticed her sense of entitlement from the beginning, and have been locked in photographically. As a subject she is irresistible. She loves the camera, and almost defies me not to photograph her.  She gets whacked and thumped, but she comes back. She perseveres.  She is assaulted, nearly killed, and a few hours later, she is riding on a donkey’s back to get to the barn. She follows Maria around like a puppy. She terrorizes the barn cats, and ignores the dogs, and intimidates even Frieda.

She lives her life, she reflects the part of us that clings to dignity, that refuses to submit to the foxes of the world, or permit them to drive us into lives of fear and retreat. She goes where she wants to go, breaks the rules, pokes conventional wisdom, holds her head up and looks straight into the camera. We are all Megs indeed, those of us who refuse to lead small lives, bend to the will of others. So this is why I have been taking her photos. I get it.