For two years, I worked on a novel into which I wanted to cram everything: haunting evocation of place, Issues of Our Time, the works. It was about pork. I read thousands of pages about the meat industry, interviewed dozens of people, slaughtered a pig. The more I studied, the worse the book became.

I happened to be a counselor at a writing camp as my disenchantment with my work reached its pitch. At the end of the session, we took the campers to a creepy grave statue, and the director of the camp told a story. His tale didn’t include witty dialogue, sharp observations, or a single Issue of Our Time, and yet I was hooked. I realized that I didn’t want to write an important novel; I just wanted to tell a good story. At the same time, I wanted to find a more appropriate venue for my interest in our food system.

I had been thinking about law school since college, but I had no idea what I wanted to accomplish with a J.D. Now that I had developed strong opinions about some areas of agricultural law (ag-gag laws are wrong; the USDA’s organic standards are problematic), I began to consider a legal career more seriously. I called more than a dozen lawyer friends and family members who varied widely in terms of their jobs, levels of experience, and satisfaction. Over and over again, I heard that the hours were long and the work often tedious. But I’ve never been intimidated by long hours or the prospect of tedium, and I came to think that the particular demands of a legal career suited my strengths and inclinations. I know that I will not get to litigate a class-action lawsuit against Tyson the year after law school, but I think I can find a career that would let me act on issues that matter to me.

I started over on my novel and expect to finish it before I matriculate. The book lets me exorcise my storytelling bug. A legal career will satisfy my penchant for research, critical thinking, and analytic writing, and it might just let me tackle an Issue of Our Time.