O Authors, My Authors

I feel it's only right in a blog that is loosely centered around writing to include somewhere a shrine to my favorite authors.  Even more reason to broach this topic right now is the fact that this has been a stupendous year for some of my authors (yes, I call them my authors), with some of them having new books released.  So, without further ado, I give you my most adored writers:

1. Margaret Atwood
2. Mary Roach
3. Karen Russell
4. Joyce Carol Oates
5. Laura Hillenbrand

My first introduction to Margaret Atwood was as a freshman in college.  A friend introduced me to The Handmaid's Tale, Atwood's unbeatable dystopian novel.  From there, I was hooked. 

I got to meet Margaret Atwood once - a dream come true.  She was in DC a few years ago, promoting her book The Year of the Flood.  After a stage performance of a chapter from the book, I anxiously lined up for autographs.  I had her sign my beloved and well-read copy of The Handmaid's Tale, and it looks like this:

I re-read this book about every two or three years.  I think I'm about due. 

The thing about Maggie (sometimes I call her that) is her prose is so vivid but sometimes harsh in its brevity.  Somehow she maintains that delicate balance of description and succinctness that alludes me at all times.  If you're reading this Maggie, I love you.

I discovered Mary Roach when she published her first book: Stiff, the Curious Lives of Human Cadavers.  This woman's ability to sink her teeth into the bizarre and come out with something that is both enlightening and hilarious is so wonderful.  Writing non-fiction, her journalistic skills make for great reading.  I remember reading her book Spook on a flight from vet school to home for Christmas vacation and stifling laughs as she described struggling to pull out a specimen of "ectoplasm" in the basement of a library. 

The thing about Mary is although she's entertaining and her subjects border on preposterous, her sense of scientific curiosity keeps the books moving forward.  She's not just writing to write weirdo stuff.  She's writing because she wants to know more. 

Karen Russell is my most recent edition to Anna's Top Authors.  I read her debut novel Swamplandia! in February.  It was her second collection of short stories, though, that really blew me away.  Vampires in the Lemon Grove came out this year and hang on to your hats, kids, because this girl can write. 

The thing about Karen is the creativity packed in her short stories is unbridled yet honed to a sharp point.  The Barn at the End of our Term is my favorite of her short stories so far and I look to her stories for guidance as I struggle with my own.

Ah, Joyce Carol Oates.  You are a staple to any reader worth his/her salt when it comes to 20th and 21st century American literature.  I remember first seeing JCO's novel Blonde in the window of a bookstore in Covent Gardens, London.  A perennial fan of Marilyn Monroe, it caught my eye but it wasn't until sophomore year in an undergrad fiction class when we read a short story by JCO that I connected the dots.  Unlike my other favorite authors, I haven't yet read all of JCO's works (my god, that woman is a prolific writer!) but I'm slowly working toward that goal. 

Last but not least is the lovely Laura Hillenbrand.  Like any good horse lover, I dutifully read Seabiscuit which I probably would have enjoyed even if it was poorly written (which it's not).  The second time around, Laura's next book Unbroken confirmed in my mind what an engaging writer she is. 

Like Mary Roach, Laura tackles non-fiction, and has somehow dug up amazing stories left almost forgotten in history.  Piecing together interviews and research, Laura manages to piece together stories that read like water tight thrillers only better because they actually happened.  Oh, and to add to Laura's amazingness?  She suffers from chronic fatigue syndrome.  That's right - nearly paralyzed by exhaustion in bed, she still managed to put together not one but two New York Times bestsellers.  *commence standing ovation*

So there you have it for the record: my favorite author manifesto.  Which leads me to ask: who are your favorites?

Professional relationships Or: Always tell someone she has manure on her face

In vet med, we have what's called the veterinarian-client-patient relationship (or VCPR for short).  This is exactly what its long-winded name describes - the bubble that contains your vet, your pet, and you and it is necessary in order for your vet to properly assess your pet, make a diagnosis, and start treatment.  It exists a lot in part to prevent folks from diagnosing disease over the phone (or over the internet) for an animal he/she has never ever seen.  It helps ensure your vet is familiar with your pet's medical history and in many states, a VCPR is legally required for a veterinarian to diagnose and dispense medication. 

What this VCPR looks like differs between vets and between clients. There's a different bubble for everyone. For many small animal practitioners, the bubble exists in the exam room while he/she flips through your pet's records, asks you questions about medical history, and then proceeds with the physical exam.  For large animal practitioners, the bubble exists on the farm while he/she asks the farmer about how he manages his herd, looks at the herd and facilities, and, if lucky, drinks some lemonade or has a cookie that's been brought out by a family member.

Take note: the best clients are those who serve food and drink

These are professional relationships that exist to benefit and protect the animal.  But it's true that some clients become good friends with their vets.  And that's totally fine.  We should enjoy our jobs and be friendly with people when we can.  This got me thinking about professional relationships in the writing world and that naturally led me down the path of the writer-literary agent relationship.

Now, reader be warned, the rest of what you are about to read is pure speculation.  I do not currently have an agent (if you know of one who'd like to represent an awesome, brilliant, creative, hilarious, insightful, industrious, beautiful, and humble aspiring novel writer, please send them my way....).  I'm just imaging what I'd like my working relationship with an agent to be like, and this vision is probably WAY off because, for starters, it's based on what I've seen on TV.

Basically, I'd like an agent-writer relationship similar to the one in Showtime's Californication: Hank Moody (writer) and Charlie Runkle (agent).  Both characters of course have faults, actually numerous nasty faults, but their relationship is fun and self-deprecating.  They are best friends and through the trials and tribulations of everything that is the show, they work together.

Yup, just me and my agent, BFFs

However, I am aware that this is not usually how the whole writer-lit agent thing goes.  Numerous blogs tell me so.  And Twitter.  And magazine articles.  Something tells me most literary agents don't have the time to be a writer's best friend (so, you see it's merely a time thing, not a personal thing, right?).  I understand.  No really, I do.  Just like I don't have time to be BFFs with every single client of mine, right?

So....ok.  When I get one of my various writing projects to a point where I'm ready for representation I'll try to keep the VCPR in mind.  I won't expect anything above what I would normally provide in a VCPR.  But I will say this: there are clients out there who will tell you you have manure on your face and there are clients who won't.  I'm friends with most of the clients who tell me like it is and won't let me drive off their farm with a brown splat of who-knows-what (ok, we usually know what it is in my line of work) on my cheek or in my hair.  Some even help get it off.  I guess that's what I'd really like in a writer-literary agent relationship too.  Someone to call you on your shit and help you with it.  Is that too much to ask?

Update on the Book Club

I hinted in a blog a couple months ago that I was starting a book club at work.  Since then, I've held two meetings (we meet once a month) and am pleased to announce SUCCESS!

First let me say that I had purely selfish reasons for starting this club.  I've never been a member at any other book club and that's for the following reasons:

1. book clubs were never reading books I wanted to read
2. they seemed filled with old ladies with nothing better to do than psychoanalyze the many possible reasons why Charlotte Bronte chose to kill Mr. Rochester's crazy wife in a house fire.  Ug.

I'm sure I'm totally off base here, but this is pretty much what I envisioned a book club to be

And yet I really wanted to join a book club.  One of my most favorite-est things to do is discuss a book I've read with someone else (preferably who has also read the book).  So, in the spirit of "my way or the highway" I started my own club so I can secretly (or not so secretly) have control over the books we read.  Is that a little creepy?  No, don't tell me.

Creepiness aside, our first book was The Art of Racing in the Rain by Garth Stein.  It was great.  Most everyone in the group is a veterinarian or associated with vet med, so a book narrated by a dog was a big hit.  We laughed, we cried, we had a rollicking good time. 

Then onto the next month.  I sung the praises of Swamplandia!, by Karen Russell, which I read this past February.  Folks thought the premise of this novel sounded interesting (and who wouldn't: set in the Everglades in Florida in a failing gator-wrestling tourist attraction) and thus it was decided: Book #2.

I began hearing murmurings of dissent soon afterward.  Swamplandia! is a heavy read and putting it right after the fairly quick read of Stein's novel, it feels even more toilsome.  Even I'll admit that.  People were complaining.  They said they couldn't finish it in time.  They didn't like it.  It was too depressing.  I was fearing rebellion.

This is where I learned Book Club Lesson #1: not everyone has to like every book all the time. 

As a colleague who is not in the Book Club but was listening to my concerns of burning pitchforks said: "They'll get over it.  It'll be good for them."  And she was right.

The second meeting went just as well as the first.  Sure, there were people who didn't like the book.  But it added to the discussion.  People brought up points that I, in my blinded love for everything that is Karen Russell (MY GOD have you read Vampires in the Lemon Grove yet???), had not considered.  Some points I didn't agree with but that's the point - we TALKED.  We DISCUSSED.  We had a rollicking good time.

Next month (actually now in a few weeks here - time flies, and all that), we're reading George Orwell's 1984.  We all agreed we didn't remember a thing about that book when we were forced to read it in high school, so a revisit seemed like a good idea. 

And this is where I've come to learn Book Club Lesson #2: there is no "I" in "book club".  Notice the previous paragraph where I said "we"?  By golly, I've got myself a little democracy going on - we voted and everything!  I mean, surely I guide selections from which to choose, but still - it's the group choice at the end.  My totalitarian hand will only crack down in two instances: if someone suggests the Twilight series or 50 Shades of Grey.  Only then will Anna's Iron Curtain fall down. 

Pets from the Past and a Writer who Remembers

My cat Amber died about a month ago.  I've already blogged about losing a pet (see my petMD.com blog here) and I don't desire belaboring the point longer.  Instead, this loss has jogged my memory a bit and I'd like to share with you some ancient animal-loving, young writer history. 

Growing up, I had pets.  The progression of my pets followed a fairly normal course: first goldfish, then cats, then finally, finally! a dog (dogs were my passion in elementary school).  Then, middle school hit and I became horse crazy (still am).  As a child who loved books and often wrote (although not realizing I actually wanted to do such a thing as a grown-up), I started keeping a pet diary.  Initially starting as a "Fish Diary" given the initial critters I kept, this morphed from a paperback tombstone of fish that I had known and loved, with entries every time a fish died, to a handwritten record (bound with pink yarn!) of the pets that entered my life. 

My Animal Diary (you can see where it originally said "fish") - complete with illustrations!

Starting when I was nine with the too-soon death of my very first goldfish named, embarrassingly, "Goldie", this record quickly takes on the tragic tone of a child's direct observations on loss.

Apparently, my second fish, "Kally" (because she was calico), died soon after "Goldie".  Pesky goldfish. 

The next entry was more upbeat, titled: "Got New Fish!" But you see where this is going... The enthusiastic new fish entry occurred on Saturday, March 16, 1991.  Next entry: Thursday, March 20, 1991, reads as follows:

"On Thursday, March 20, 1991 Chocolate our black fish with bulging eyes died. I knew he was going to die first. But oh well. I'm sorry he did die."

Way to sort of pat yourself on the back for predicting death, Creepy Kid Anna.  And love the resolve here: "But oh well".  Kids grow up so quick.

Apparently, my parents decided by the summer of 1991, I had grown out of the fish phase and was ready for terrestrial pets:

Yes, we gave all our pets middle names. And apparently my artistic skills were limited to fish.

Soon after, more animals: Patches and her kittens, and a stray named Pumpkin.  The last entry in this journal was September 9, 1995 when I finally got my first dog, Sam. 

It's funny to go back and look at things we've written long ago.  In my case, the handwriting seems alien and the blunt phrases and overt turns of emotion surprise me.  I'm glad this flimsy journal, bound with red construction paper, has survived moves overseas and back, college dorms, and the purges that come with each successive move to a new location.  A glimpse into the past can even sometimes help us understand where we are now.  No, I don't specifically keep a pet journal anymore.  But I do journal in general and have been since 2008.  My current pets feature in these pages occasionally.  Amber sure did.  And we keep writing on.

A book lover on vacation

Anyone following my Twitter stream (@annaobriendvm) is aware that I've been away on a two week vacation through the Pacific Northwest.  Driving up and down the western parts of Washington and Oregon, visiting national parks such as Olympic, Crater Lake, Mt. Rainier, and North Cascades, and stopping at all the little espresso huts our bladders could handle, we also briefly spent time in Seattle and Portland.  The top two attractions on our list in those two cities were naturally book-related.  Here's the low-down.

First stop: Powell's Books in Portland, OR

We had heard about Powell's Books prior to coming to Portland.  People who knew us and knew we were going to Portland instantly said: Oh, well you've gotta go to Powell's.  And now I pass along this bit of advice to you, too.  If you are a book lover in ANY sense of the title, you CANNOT pass this up.  This place is amazing.

Taking up the space of one entire city block, this multi-level, multi-room, book universe is reportedly the largest independent bookstore in the world.  The place is so big that the rooms are color-coded and you need a map to roughly navigate the maze of aisles.  There is also a cafe that makes a smoooooooooth latte. 

I judge a book store by two aspects: how good their pet section is (naturally) and how good their space section is (not so naturally).  Powell's excelled in both genres.  The pet section had some oldies, some goodies, some I've only ever seen in ancient catalogs, and some veterinary textbooks I've never seen in the flesh outside of a vet school or clinic.  Now I was impressed.

Just a taste of Powell's section on horse books

Then the space section.  This held books on NASA history that I've never even seen available at the National Air and Space museum, a place I love for many reasons, but they also have a respectable book section in their gift shop. 

We first spent an evening there as mostly a reconnaissance mission.  The next morning, we headed back with more serious intentions.  Another awesome thing about this place is they ship books, a required element for the out-of-towners with limited suitcase realty.  Turns out if you show up at their desk with a handful of books to buy, they can ship them all to your home address for a flat rate fee of $12.95.  So what did we do?  Showed up at their desk as our parking token was about to expire and mailed a bunch back home.  Bliss.

Sci-fi section in Powell's has a wall autographed by various visiting sci-fi writers

Second stop: Seattle Public Library

My brother introduced us to this literary haven.  Apparently a study in modern architecture, the Seattle Public Library (SPL for the cool kids) is an immense geometric structure with large glass windows.  Although unmissable on a city corner, my first thought was not: oh, there's the library.  The uniqueness doesn't end once you go inside.  With ten floors, the SPL has modern creature comforts such as a cafe, small bar, and gift shop, as well as neon yellow escalators to take you to your destination.

 

 

 

Top floor of the Seattle Public Library

This bibliophile's heaven had a floor plan to get you in the general area of your reading goals and they even have a set-up where librarians can help you choose your next five books to read based on your preferences.  With lots of quiet reading spaces, I can easily see how someone might get metaphorically lost in this building, hours flying by as you peruse shelf upon shelf upon shelf.  It's probably a good thing we don't have Seattle library cards. 

Can't end this blog without a photo of one of my favorite espresso huts. This just screams WASHINGTON!

I'm Listening

I made the commitment leap and started my own book club.  Our first meeting is this coming Thursday and the book we are discussing is: The Art of Racing in the Rain, by Garth Stein.  I've never been a book club member before, so I'm not sure how it will go, but I'm excited.  This, the book club I mean, is definitely a topic for an upcoming blog, so stay tuned for that.

What I really wanted to chat about today is the topic of listening and there's a wonderful piece in Stein's book about it.  The narrator of the story is a lovely dog named Enzo.  Being a dog, he can't speak, so we're privy instead to his thoughts and observations, particularly regarding human interaction.  Enzo is convinced when he dies, his soul will leave and become human and thus with the life he is currently living, he takes note on what will make him a good human.  Which brings me to this excerpt:

"Here's why I will be a good person.  Because I listen.  I cannot speak, so I listen very well.  I never interrupt, I never deflect the course of the conversation with a comment of my own.  People, if you pay attention to them, change the direction of one another's conversations constantly.  It's like having a passenger in your car who suddenly grabs the steering wheel and turns you down a side street.  For instance, if we met at a party and I wanted to tell you a story about the time I needed to get a soccer ball in my neighbor's yard but his dog chased me and I had to jump into a swimming pool to escape, and I began telling the story, you, hearing the words "soccer" and "neighbor" in the same sentence, might interrupt and mention that your childhood neighbor was Pele, the famous soccer player, and I might be courteous and say, Didn't he play for the Cosmos of New York?  Did you grow up in New York?  And you might reply that, no, you grew up in Brazil on the streets of Tres Coracoes with Pele, and I might say, I thought you were from Tennessee, and you might say not originally, and then go on to outline your genealogy at length.  So my initial conversational gambit - that I had a funny story about being chased by my neighbor's dog - would be totally lost, and only because you had to tell me all about Pele.  Learn to listen!  I beg of you.  Pretend you are a dog like me and listen to other people rather than steal their stories."

I love this excerpt.  And I love Enzo.  What a wise creature.  He's right.  Shut up and listen.  Humans are terrible listeners.  Most of them.  But there are at least two professions where listening is a coveted tool: veterinary medicine and writing.

Vets have to be good listeners.  Every piece of information that comes out of an owner's mouth could contain some insight into what the dog ate or what changed in the horse's environment.  They may not realize it.  I may not realize it, just then.  But as words and sentences swirl together to create a story about what happened last night at the emergency room, subtle observations creep out and clues are teased from the mass.

In vet school and after graduation, still wet behind the ears, upon a patient's initial physical exam, I would be so determined to ask the right questions, and get the most helpful answers, that I found myself concentrating on what I was going to ask and I missed half of what the owner was saying.  Listening takes practice.

I feel for the most part authors are good listeners as well.  Part of constructing good fictional dialogue is understanding what real conversation sounds like, and taking out all the bad, redundant bits (and run-on sentences - man, do people talk like crazy with run-on sentences.)

So what about you?  Are you a good listener? 

Guilty or Am I the Only Soul Who Doesn't Like James Herriot???

I have a confession to make:  I do not enjoy stories by James Herriot.  As a veterinarian and writer and someone who enjoys the British countryside and is a decent, kind, caring person, I understand that this makes no sense.  He should be my idol. 

For those of you living under some sort of mega-rock for the past half century (or maybe you're just not into books about animals, I guess - I shouldn't be so harsh), James Herriot was a mid-20th century British veterinarian who wrote a series of semi-autobiographical books about being a vet in the British countryside.  His most popular book, All Creatures Great and Small, also became the name of the TV series on the BBC based on his stories. 

I feel that everyone loves James Herriot.  You are supposed to love James Herriot.  What's there not to love?  His stories are down to earth, humorous, and filled with little British-y quirks and mannerisms that make Americans squirm with delight. 

James Herriot - see? What's there not to like? And yet somehow...

And yet.... I first tried Herriot when I was in middle school, per recommendation from my mom.  I recall plucking an old, weathered paperback from the immense book shelf in our family room and settling down one evening to read all about vet adventures, adventures just like I dreamed for myself one day.... And after about thirty pages, that was it.  I was done.  I just.  Didn't.  Like.  It.

Haven't you ever started a book and you get this feeling like: eh, this doesn't feel like me.... and then sure enough, something just doesn't click and no matter what, you can't muster the gumption to finish the darn thing?  Rarely do I get that feeling, but when I do, man, it's impossible to kick and the book just languishes.  Life is way too short to waste time on books that don't "click", that's what I say. 

Given the fact that I was only a pre-teen when this occurred, I sensibly tried to give the book another shot when I was in college.  Home for summer vacation, again I picked up the same weathered paperback and tried (harder this time) to like it. 

Nope.

And that's it.  No three-strikes-you're-out thing for me.  Two tries - that should be enough.  Herriot and myself were just not meant to be.  It's like how some people just can't stand Hemingway or Shakespeare. 

This topic comes up occasionally.  It's like whenever people find out I'm a vet and love to read, they automatically ask about Herriot: "oh you must love James Herriot" or "you must've read all the James Herriot books."  And the truth, as you've learned, is: nope.  Then, when I openly admit I actually don't care for these books, the reaction is normally a shocked facial expression and an uncomfortable: "Oh, really?  Oh.... well...."  It's like I admitted I kill people and eat them or something.  (Which I don't, internet.  I don't.) 

And so, to keep random conversations with clients and other animal-loving people pleasant, when asked about Herriot, I sort of mumble something about how I've never really read any of his books, and then comment on the weather or scream: THERE'S A SPIDER OVER THERE which creates the perfect diversion.

The perfect diversion for awkward conversations

Now that I've come clean, I'm wondering if there's anyone else out there who isn't a fan of the lovable James Herriot.  When I Google "James Herriot bad reviews" or "people who don't like James Herriot", I get nothing.  Not even Google admits there are people out there like me.  But, if you're reading this and find yourself nodding in agreement to my riveting text, maybe we can form a support group or something... I'm thinking some sort of social event involving cookies.... 

And now I'm done hating on books.  Because the truth is, of course, I love books.  I live for books.  And I'd much rather talk about books I love than the ones I don't.  So this is the last time you'll hear me moan and groan about a book.  Well, except for Dickens.  I can't stand Dickens.  But that's for another blog...