Susan Burrowes, Author

Most people look at the pictures, glance at them really, and then look away. The disturbing images of death, bodies loaded into ovens, mass graves, desperate eyes peeking out of cattle cars are too much to ponder. If they scroll past quickly enough, the nightmare might turn to mist in the light of present day. I can’t look away. I study the photos until my eyes burn, wiping the tears that are blurring my vision, seeking a family resemblance in the fading pictures of an e

When you write about yourself and your family, there is a risk. In this era of rudeness, it is hard to predict not only what people will say about your work but how they will say it. I wrote a book about my parenting mistakes in the face of sudden, inexplicable changes in my much-loved eldest child, as she fell into a world of drugs, alcohol and self-harm. I agonized over the writing, it took years. Afterwards, I went through the pre-publication process—collecting editoria

The noise level changed pitch along our long rural road, as we strolled passed neighborhood generators. The power had been out for days, and we were out walking, dodging small rockslides, and new cracks in the old street. When we moved to the woods we thought we were doing something wonderful for our future children. “They will love nature” I said, envisioning a scene out of a Disney movie, our children skipping through the meadow with forest creatures, flowers in their hair.