Raising Artemis

There was never really a question about who would narrate Raising Artemis. It was always Lucy. Small, luminous, and entirely self-possessed, she ran the house with military precision and a twinkle in her eye. When she died—on my birthday, of course—I knew she had chosen her moment. Writing her voice after she passed didn’t feel like invention. It felt like transcription.

I had been thinking about writing a book centered on my animals for years, but I didn’t know the shape of the story yet. I only knew the animals mattered. While the world changed during COVID, I kept writing—without a map, without certainty—listening for what they were trying to teach me. What they never let me forget was this: stories don’t need forcing, love doesn’t need justification, and the right path reveals itself only when you’re willing to walk it slowly.