A few years ago I read the book, When Women Were Birds:Fifty-four Variations on Voice by Terry Tempest Williams. It is an autobiography. Told by her dying mother that she was to inherit all her journals, she was instructed not to look at them until she was gone. At some point after, she found the journals, three shelves full, and opened the first to find it blank. The second, the third and so forth. All of them empty. Though my…
