Do Animals Mourn?

Animals on the ranch, Life On The Ranch, On Love, Raising Cattle, Ranch animals September 2, 2015 1 Comment

Not long ago my wife, Trudy, and I returned from an Kenyan safari. The trip was wonderful in so many ways, and one of the many amazing stories was how elephants mourn. When an elephant dies, the rest of the herd stands around the body for up to three days without eating or drinking. They then push over trees to cover the body of the deceased elephant, in effect performing a burial. Even years later when returning to the site they stop and stand silently, as if remembering their fallen family member.

I found this story engaging. It made me wonder if elephants engage in the same emotions of mourning as do humans. These elephant behaviors look like they are mourning the deceased.

Then a couple of days I saw something in my herd of cattle that called me up short. Tragically a calf of about a month of age died. I found it dead without obvious cause. The mother had wandered off by then to feed with the herd.CALVES IMG_0191

When I rolled the dead animal over, inspecting it for signs of predators or other hints as to why it  had died, I was surprised to look up and see the mother trundling hurriedly for where I stood. The mama cow maintained her protective instinct for her deceased calf, and I felt sure she would have defended the carcass. Needless to say, I quickly took my leave.

Admittedly, protectiveness of the calf’s body is different from mourning but still projects an awareness of concern and affection for the deceased calf. Watching mother cows cleanse, feed, and protect their calves has convinced me that these mothers feel strong emotions for their offspring. Even the bull on occasion ends up calf-sitting and demonstrates surprising patience and protective instincts for his offspring.

I have believed for years that human psychology could be better informed if we better understand the behavior of other mammals, especially those closest to us on the evolutionary scale.

Would love to hear your thoughts. Do you think animals mourn? Do your pets show emotions?

Mid-November Book Release Announced

Creative Writing, Publishing Process, The Writing Process August 26, 2015 Comments: 2

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My publisher has announced my forthcoming book, Carrying The Black Bag: A Neurologist’s Bedside Tales, will be released mid-November. This blog will continue to address interesting aspects of Ranching and Retirement but will also begin to increasingly emphasize Reading and wRiting (The Four R’s).

Soon you will see changes in the appearance of the blog reflecting the added emphasis on writing and my book. I hope you will follow  the excitement of bringing my book to press with its many twists and turns. The most important aspect is sharing these poignant patient stories as they are no longer able to give voice to them.

Coming soon: The Cover Release. Roll the drums!

Greenville, Texas: The Blackest Land and the Whitest People- One Perspective

Integration August 25, 2015 1 Comment

Mr. Reginald Johnson responded with a comment to my latest post dealing with past racial issues in the east Texas town of Greenville, Texas. I approved his insightful comments and they have been posted. The following additional blog comment was, at my request, an elaboration of his first-hand experience growing up in Greenville. It is a simple yet elegant statement for diminishing racial tensions and one that bears reading. I thank Mr. Johnson for his thoughtfulness and willingness to share. And also THANKS go to the unexpected benefits of high school football! Let the season begin.GreenvilleSign-1

MR.Hutton, Thank You
The reason for my response, is I’m a Trucker, and so I speak with a lot of people. I’m Very Tired of All the Racial Tension These days. Sad to Say, By the Current Administration. I’m Trying to Defuse it, in my Own Way. GREENVILLE, TEXAS : At the end of my 1st grade year, we were Told that this School, Would be Closing ( Frederick Douglass Elementary/ All Black ). That some of us would be going to other Schools, Named Bowie, Lamar, Crockett, and Travis. I went to Travis.
The older kids, said that WE ARE GOING TO SEE WHITE PEOPLE !! AND THAT WE WOULD HAVE TO FIGHT !!! At that Young Age, I DIDN’T REALIZE, THAT THERE WAS A DIFFERENCE, IN PEOPLE. My parents NEVER MADE RACE, AN ISSUE. Not to me, nor my sister. And So, my 2nd grade year, just about EVERYDAY!!!! When walking home, there Was a house, that some White Kids, From the same School would congregate. These Kids WOULD HOLLER “NIGGER’S !!!!! AND, WE WOULD HOLLER BACK ” PECKER WOOD’S ” , THEN WE WOULD START FIGHTING !!! AGAIN, EVERYDAY. …
I GOT TIRED OF FIGHTING, EVERY DAM DAY.. And, I would wonder, WHY ARE WE FIGHTING ???? I COULDN’T UNDERSTAND.
BUT, A BEAUTIFUL THING HAPPENED, ” FOOTBALL ” !!!! ( REMEMBER THE TITANS ) As the football season began, training together, and then PLAYING TOGETHER, AGAINST ANOTHER TEAM…. Well, WE ALL BECAME FRIENDS !!!!!!!! UNTIL THIS VERY DAY !!! WHENEVER, WE SEE EACH OTHER, ” NOTHING BUT LOVE “…… I went to there house, and would play, and Eat. And, some would Come to my house, would play, and Eat. ” RACISM ” IS FOR , STUPID/IGNORANT PEOPLE…. THESE PEOPLE, ARE THE niggers.

Thank You

Reflections on Greenville, Texas- Part 2: “The Blackest Land and the Whitest People”

Integration July 17, 2015 Comments: 5

My earlier piece on Greenville, Texas (“The Blackest Land and the Whitest People”) attracted a surprising number of hits. Since writing it I attended my wife’s 50th high school reunion and learned additional information.GreenvilleSign-1

Among the nostalgic celebrants from Greenville High, Class of 1965 was a single African-American and his wife. Thomas, who now lives in Brooklyn and has been successful in his career, was greeted warmly and was obviously well-liked by his classmates. I had a brief visit with Thomas and learned his intriguing story.

He shared many years ago when he left home to register for high school, his parents assumed he would attend the all-black Carver High School. Instead and without their knowledge he made a bee line for Greenville High. Thomas was, if not the first African-American, among the very first to integrate the school.

Thomas had delivered prescriptions for the local pharmacy and, in the process, had become friendly with people of all races in Greenville. He had developed a comfort level with all types of people.

From my brief interaction with Thomas, I felt  a better person could not have existed to break down the color barrier. He was affable, intelligent, and while an athlete, hardly the star of any of Greenville High’s sports teams. He was, in my estimation, the perfect “Jackie Robinson” for Greenville High.

He recalls no negative feelings from students or staff at Greenville High. While bowled over by his choice of school, his parents were not concerned enough to force him to change his mind or his registration.

While racism remained rampant in the south in the early 1960s, the young people in Greenville proved far more welcoming than perhaps the older generation would have been.

In such matters, leaving integration matters up to the younger generation seems to have worked better than attempting to change the minds of the entire populace. Just my thought and would love to hear yours.

Oh, and for what it is worth, the white classmates fifty years later still think “whitest people” refers to virtue and honesty and carries with it no racial overtones. If only the former Governor of Texas, John Connally, and legions of others around the U.S.A. saw it the same way.

Tay Hohoff- Editor of “To Kill A Mockingbird”

Publishing Process, The Writing Process July 15, 2015 Leave a comment

Yesterday the novel “Go Set A Watchman” by Harper Lee was published. With its  publicity came to light that an invisible hand existed for her previous, Pulitzer prize winning novel, “To Kill A Mockingbird.” This skillful hand was that of her editor, Tay Hohoff, who at the time worked at Lippincott.

As the story goes Hohoff perceived impressive talent in the young Harper Lee but the manuscript she offered was a mess. It consisted of a series of anecdotes that lacked coherence and failed to uplift the reader.

Over the next two and a half years, Harper Lee, who to her credit was dogged enough to persist in her writing effort, wisely followed her editor’s counsel and repeatedly rewrote her manuscript. Her industry ultimately gave rise to her masterpiece, “To Kill A Mockingbird.”

The book this week by Harper Lee was written earlier than Mockingbird and is reported to lack the uplifting moral courage shown by Atticus Finch in Mockingbird, instead depicting the aging Atticus as a typical southern white male bigot of the 1950s. What a shift from the wise and courageous Atticus Finch we loved in Mockingbird and portrayed by Gregory Peck in the movie version.

“Go Set A Watchman” was written prior to “To Kill A Mockingbird” and lacked the skillful editing by Tay Hohoff. Could there be a clearer example of an editor’s impact? For my money I would rather re-read Mockingbird.

I am sure other examples exist of unsung editors who took incompletely developed manuscripts and fashioned them into meaningful and successful pieces of literature.

In my own situation with my book, “Carrying the Black Bag” (Texas Tech University Press due out November 15), I have gained a huge amount of respect for my editor, Joanna Conrad.

For example my “problem child” of a chapter did not fit the mold of the others in that the ill person was not personally known to me. Nevertheless, Adolf Hitler had Parkinson’s disease and, in my opinion, the disease affected his cognitive ability and impacted his conduct of World War II.

My premise is that his concern over his life-shortening Parkinson’s disease and heart disease prompted him prematurely to invade the Soviet Union. Also his cognitive dysfunction due to advanced PD delayed the counterattack by the German forces at the Battle of Normandy, establishing a second front.

Joanna liked the information in the Hitler chapter but not its academic tone. She skillfully guided me to weave the information into the book in a similar fashion to the other patient stories. Like Harper Lee before Mockingbird was published, I too am an unpublished popular author with little choice but comply with my editor but, like Lee, also I also listened carefully to my wise editor’s advice. This I believe is good advice for novice writers.

Here I am sure any comparison between Harper Lee’s masterpiece and my humble effort stops. Nevertheless, I am no less appreciative of Joanna Conrad than Harper Lee was of Tay Hohoff.

Buddy

Animals on the ranch, Border collies, Creative Writing, Life On The Ranch, Ranch animals, ranching June 5, 2015 Comments: 3

I love Border collies. This statement will never be called into question by those who know me. Not only do they make great pets, they have proved valuable in herding our cattle at Medicine Spirit Ranch. Especially impressive have been feats of herding involving our well-traveled bulls to neighboring, overgrown ranches. Without Border collies, the bulls might still be AWOL.
The story that follows is about Buddy. Please give me your feedback as I plan to submit this piece either to a contest or possible publication. It needs to be as good as it can be.
In its initial form the story had a middle portion showing Buddy’s incredible herding abilities. In this shortened story, I skipped the middle portion in the present version in the belief it took away some of the punch. I look forward to your comments.

 

Buddy

Impatiently, he waited for me to stop the pickup, piercing the night with excited, high-pitched yips. His succession of barks resounded up and down the hill through sheening groves of moonlit juniper.
Once the pickup had nearly stopped, I watched in the side-view mirror as my border collie burst from the bed of the pickup like a cannon shot. I pressed hard on the accelerator, attempting to outdistance Buddy to the garage a quarter of a mile ahead- a tiny victory, long sought after in this our nightly contest, but one not yet realized.
In the darkness, I could only make out the white “shepherd’s lantern” at the tip of Buddy’s tail. It appeared and quickly disappeared, as he sprinted through low brush, behind trees, and into gathering shadows.
I silently lauded his long strides as they gobbled up the gray ribbon of our ranch road. His youthfulness and agility made me a little envious as they contrasted with my increasing years and diminishing physical abilities. Age may have certain advantages but flexibility and speed are not among them.
The road bent away from the house in a semicircular direction while Buddy took a shortcut across a field of native grass. Before our paths diverged, I caught a glimpse in the headlights of the determined black and white collie, with ears back, charging confidently ahead. During this final sinuous stretch of ranch road, Buddy would typically overtake me, given his ability to out corner my hoary Dodge pickup. I galumphed over a rusty pipe cattle guard and plunged down the driveway toward the waiting garage and faux finish line.
Minutes later after parking the old truck, I looked for my competitive canine. I was surprised not to find Buddy waiting on the driveway with his usual smug look pasted across his muzzle. I waited a minute…. and then another, but he failed to arrive. I walked out onto the front lawn. The smell of newly mown grass and honeysuckle wafted over me. I breathed deeply, enjoying the scent. More minutes ticked by. My surprise became worry, giving way to eventual alarm.
I jogged awkwardly across the yard, searching the gloom of night for his familiar silhouette. What I spotted took several long moments to register. Slowly, like a photograph developing in a darkroom bath, it became clear, frighteningly clear to me. When it did, it filled me with an inky dread.
My normally agile Buddy moved oddly. I hurried closer to gain a better look. I was shocked by what I saw. My heart sank because Buddy with great effort was hauling himself along with his powerful forelimbs, his back legs lifelessly trailing behind. The significance crashed over me like a cataract over a broken dam. Oh my god, he’s paralyzed!
Within minutes I placed an urgent phone call to our veterinarian. Thankfully he responded immediately and said he was still working in his office and immediately to bring Buddy in. My wife, Trudy, and I gently lifted Buddy into the car and rushed back down the ranch road and across town. Red lights exasperated our progress, as did the sated, unhurried diners departing restaurants on Main Street. I felt additional tension welling up within me. On arrival at the one story, white stone veterinary clinic on the east side of town, I gathered Buddy in my arms and carried him through the double glass door Trudy held open. Within moments of Trudy ringing the bell on the counter, Dr. O’Neill appeared behind the main desk and proceeded to lead us down a darkened hallway to the first examination room. The clinic had a faint odor of wet dog mixed with an astringent smell.
Our vet flipped on the overhead light and asked me to place Buddy on the exam table. Following a quick examination of Buddy’s back, checking for movement in the limbs, and determining if Buddy felt a pinch to his hind foot, Dr. O’Neill gave an audible exhalation and said, “Mmm.”
“What do you think?” I asked.
“Well, Buddy needs an MRI–scan and may even need back surgery.” The weight of those words, while sympathetically uttered by the kindly, square-faced veterinarian, struck home like a hammer.
“Oh no!” Trudy cried out, her words echoing through the vacant halls of the clinic building.
The meaning of his words was all too clear, but I was flummoxed as to how Buddy had injured himself and what might be done to reverse it. “But, but what happened?” I asked while stroking Buddy, who lay quietly on the stainless steel examination table. His trusting, liquid eyes repeatedly searched our faces for an explanation for all this fuss.
“Sometimes these athletic dogs can explode a disc from their spinal column, causing weakness of the hind limbs,” Dr. O’Neill replied. He tenderly ran his hand over Buddy’s furry black and white head and gave his ears a fleeting scratch. “I’ll call ahead to an all night veterinary surgical center in San Antonio, let ‘em know you’re on your way and ask them to kick-start their MRI. Awfully sorry about Buddy, really am, he’s a fine dog. Sure hope they can help him.” His voice trailed off, containing traces of both hope and lament.
Shortly after and at high speeds, we hurtled southeastward through the deep Texas night on a winding U.S Highway 87. Overhead I viewed the blurriness of the Milky Way and Orion. Silvery moonlight fell between tree limbs and lay on the ground in shattered pieces. I switched the headlights to high beam to probe the uncertain darkness ahead of us.
We soon turned onto the four lane and divided Interstate-10 in the direction of San Antonio. I noticed eighteen-wheelers, heading at high speed in the opposite direction toward El Paso and, no doubt, the West Coast. Ahead of them lay over a thousand miles of desert with limited access to assistance should they break down. I, on the other hand, was headed east toward similar uncertainty. In the backseat Trudy cradled Buddy’s head in her lap, saying little.
On arrival at the San Antonio location, I hurried out of the car and opened the back door to gather Buddy into my arms. I rushed him across the asphalt parking lot into the nondescript emergency veterinary clinic. A diminutive and surprisingly young veterinarian approached us with a confident stride. She had high and well-defined cheekbones, a reassuring smile, light brown hair pulled back in a ponytail, and an air of quiet competency. After a brief exchange, she took Buddy, and with his added weight waddled away down the green tiled hallway.
I noticed Trudy had a frightened look on her face. I felt helpless to reassure her, fearing the worst possible outcome for Buddy. We lingered in the dimly lit waiting room that was filled with about a dozen worn, inexpensive chairs, a few marred wooden side tables, and a single TV that blared a documentary on the destructive nature of feral hogs. I tried to ignore the booming TV and paced restlessly, my mind full of thorns.
The petite veterinarian soon reappeared. Her green eyes darted about and her face expressed concern. “Dr. O’Neill was right. Looks like your dog herniated a disc fragment from his spine causing his paralysis. A disc can shoot out into the spinal canal like a bullet from a rifle. Your dog’s spinal cord received a pretty good wallop.”
“Can Buddy recover?” asked Trudy.
I saw the veterinarian drop her gaze and pause for several long moments before responding. She shrugged her shoulders, raised her head, evidencing a furrowed brow. “Time will tell. Whether the fragment still compresses the cord can be determined only by an MRI-scan. You’ll need to decide if that’s how you want us to proceed.”
If the disc still compressed the delicate cord, I knew de-compressive surgery would be required, and soon, to prevent permanent paralysis of Buddy’s back legs.
“I need to go check on a Labrador who decided to tangle with a pack of coyotes. The poor old boy got chewed up pretty good.”
I made a sympathetic comment regarding the Lab but my real concern lay with Buddy.
“Will check to make sure the MRI is free, that is if you decide to proceed that way. I’m leaving Farah here to answer any questions you may have,” said the veterinarian. She turned on her heel and with purposeful strides and ponytail bobbing strode away in the opposite direction. My gaze trailed the retreating veterinarian down the hallway like a lonesome puppy. I saw her pass through the door at the end of the hall and close it with such finality that it made me wonder if I would ever again see my collie alive.
Grief and fear overwhelmed me. Trudy’s cheeks glistened and I heard muffled sobs coming from her. We embraced, knowing not what else to do. The sad look on my wife’s face would have brought a tear to a glass eye.
The veterinarian had left behind a young, spherically built vet tech to answer questions. The plain-faced assistant appeared to have three chins and reminded me of the stolid, hardy pioneer women who, along with their men, had settled the Texas frontier in the 1800s.
What followed next was an unexpected and wholly different kind of trauma delivered by the no nonsense vet tech: “The cost of the MRI-scan is $2200 upfront,” Farah piped up in her flat, broad Texas drawl. “This is in addition, of course, to the afterhours clinic charge and veterinary expenses.” She said this while smacking her gum and fingering the stethoscope dangling from her side pocket. Farah had an unblinking expression, lacking in emotion or empathy.
Guess this is where she does the wallet biopsy to check our ability to pay.
She next rattled off costs for surgery including anesthesia, medicines, and rehabilitation. Exorbitant, I thought. Would Buddy really need weeks of pool therapy to recover? Somewhere in the conversation I confirmed her conjecture that Buddy had actually cost us nothing, being born to Mollie, our Border collie bitch.
This could end up running $3000, maybe $4000 even without the surgery! With surgery just no telling the final cost!
“Even with surgery, no guarantee this dawg’s ever gonna walk again,” she said. Her drawn out words seemed to hang in the air like a slowly dissipating puff of smoke.
I avoided her laser-like gaze by glancing out the window, viewing a faint glow in the east following the long and broken night.
The technician drew my attention back by saying, “Need to consider what kinda life a paralyzed dawg would have, especially a working dawg like your border collie.” I heard her talking but her words were slow to penetrate my thinking because of my great affection for Buddy.
“Might just wanna euthanize the dawg? Sure ‘nuf be a whole lot cheaper,” said the vet tech, impatiently looking back and forth at Trudy and me as if watching a lantern swinging in a windstorm. I noticed her cheeks and chins wobbled with the excursions of her head.
Neither Trudy nor I responded to her indirect advice, all gussied up and impersonating a question. I glanced at Trudy’s face, mirroring my own dismay. I slipped a supportive arm around Trudy, trying to steady both my wife and my own rocked emotions.
The course that the vet assistant advocated was, I knew, based on sound economics for a working dog. It was just as when a rancher makes treatment decisions based on price/expense ratios for his livestock. After all it didn’t make sense to do a thousand dollar surgery on a five hundred dollar steer. Wasn’t the same rationale also true for a working cow dog? To do otherwise invited financial loss in an already challenging vocation with a very narrow profit margin. I was new to this ranching bit, but I somehow felt differently about my dog. But I also knew the wrong decision could doom Buddy to a dreadful life of paralysis. My mind was dizzy with conflict. I felt a terrible resignation wash over me.
“So what you wanna do? Want us to just put the dawg down?” Each word struck like an icepick. Time passed as if in slow motion. Trudy took a step backward and slumped into a chair. She buried her face in her hands and sobbed. The TV assaulted my ears with its cacophony of inchoate sounds. I failed to respond to the technician’s awful query, my mind in fitful desperation having by then escaped to a fonder memory of Buddy during cheerier times.

Years later, it was I who suffered from a back injury. I lay prone in my bed with my right leg frog-legged out, suffering from a ruptured disc in my low back. For six weeks I had assumed this awkward position, popping pain pills as if they were popcorn, and dreading the real possibility of impending surgery. For hours on end through the window I watched the flitting and swooping of barn swallows. I saw them disappear under the eves to their protected nests with morsels in their beaks for their hatchlings.
Along with her usual workload, Trudy had assumed my routine ranch chores. Her activities required prolonged absences from the house and this along with the remoteness of our ranch house forced an unanticipated silence in my life.
No longer was the opportunity for introspection competing with the demands of vocation, meetings, or ranch responsibilities. Following my retirement from a hectic medical practice, Trudy and I, as if compelled by habit, had become immersed in ranch work, volunteering, getting a new home in order, and establishing our presence in a new community. We had sought a reordering of our lives in a community, ripe with exciting opportunities. All my activities had earlier been put on hold weeks due to my injury.
It occurred to me, as I lay there hour after hour and day after day, that my existence before the injury had been like standing mere inches from a TV screen, unable to clearly make out the flickering images. Only now during my inactivity was I able to back away and see what was really taking place.
My new mental and physical distance from the hectic life had also brought about a sharpened awareness as to what was truly important. While travel, work, and professional accomplishments were important and had offered a degree of satisfaction, what seemed really important were the personal relationships and the imprint that love in all its forms had firmly stamped upon my life.
I lay there recalling the exhilarating intoxication of amorous love, the assurance and satisfaction that accompanied mature love, the quiet wonder of family love with the caressing voices and company of openhearted children and grandchildren. I thought of the nurturing love that comes from expanded knowledge and from my personal search for wisdom. I pondered the spiritual and devotional love that relinquished self to a greater good. I also recalled the unconditional love between pets and their humans. When thinking of pets I thought of Buddy. Love with its many faces had invigorated my life, comforted me through challenging times, and had fed and nurtured my spirit.
While convalescing from my ruptured disc, I frequently recalled Buddy’s tragic back injury so many years earlier. I assumed his back injury had been as painful as my own, but he had braved his injury with great courage and without pain medicine. I relived the mental anguish over that night at the veterinary clinic in San Antonio when presented the persuasive but repugnant option of euthanizing him.
At least there hasn’t been any talk of euthanizing me. I chuckled out loud. My long-standing feelings of hurt over Buddy resurfaced once again- a sickening mental all-time low in my life that just then co-mingled with my back pain.
I remembered during the darkest nights at our new ranch, walking behind Buddy’s white tipped tail and him leading me home. Like a beacon his shepherd’s lantern had always stood out, signaling both his movement and the path I needed to take.
As if controlled by an alien force, my hand stole out behind me and blindly searched the bed covers. I felt the coolness of the cotton sheet as my hand swept from side to side like the pendulum of a grandfather clock. And there it was. I felt moist breath on my hand, followed by a distinctly wet nose, and whiskers that tickled my hand.
I scratched behind the soft, furry ears of my now elderly Buddy. His tail began to thump happily against the bed. I cocked my head around to see him gazing at me with expressive and soulful eyes, his head cradled on his paws. From his position of recline, he slowly and mechanically stood, his back abnormally humped. He gingerly approached me. Buddy then circled three times and he lay down. His gait and actions had slowed but he showed no hint of complaint or surrender to the circumstances life had dealt him. Buddy had not required surgery and with time and home therapy had largely regained his strength in his hind limbs.
Buddy’s life had been complete with joyful forays around the ranch. He had nimbly herded our cattle, frolicked in fields festooned with bluebonnets and Indian paintbrushes, and had cared for his humans. I had no doubt he felt contented.
For weeks Buddy and I had lain beside one another in the quiet bedroom. There we shared our common sense of community. How unifying it all seemed. We two beings had been apportioned a common fate– suffering similar infirmities and growing older together.
I found Buddy’s presence comforting. Having witnessed his defiance of his injury gave me both increased strength and augmented my limited store of patience. Buddy’s tolerance for his diminishing physical abilities had imparted a life lesson not soon forgotten.
Just then, as if to show thanks and demonstrate his devotion, Buddy gave my hand a languid, velvety lick.

Am I In The Publishing Backstretch Yet?- Part V

Creative Writing, Publishing Process March 28, 2015 1 Comment

I labored under the impression that an advantage of a traditional publisher over self-publishing was that marketing and manuscript processing would be done for you. Wrong!!! All publishers these days must suffer from financial pressures as they ask authors to perform as much of this work as they can. Limited budgets and limited staff time are the explanation I have heard.

I was asked to format the accepted manuscript according to Tech Press specifications. This consisted of converting the accepted manuscript into a form that was easier for the publishing process. Secondly, a lengthy marketing questionnaire instantaneously arrived via the internet, but required much longer for my research and completion of it. The standardized questionnaire asked how and where Tech Press should advertise and many other questions related to book promotion (now those were tricky ones and likely my thoughts will not prove very helpful).

Also I was asked to obtain permission for images to appear in the book. This seemed quite reasonable but was a challenge. Researching where the image first appeared and by whom can prove difficult. In my case I mainly sought pictures of Adolf Hitler held by various European museums and the Library of Congress. Gaining permission for using these for my chapter on the impact of his Parkinson’s disease represented new and unfamiliar ground for me to till.

Once this identification phase was completed, I contacted the museums or individuals holding copyright and, in some instances, paid to use them in my book, Carrying the Black Bag: A Neurologist’s Bedside Tales. This proved a time consuming slog.

The Tech Press questionnaire also asked me to pen promotional copy for the back cover and to provide a brief bio and picture. I admit, self-promotion is awkward and hard for me to do. Nevertheless with the help of my publicist and marketing gurus at the publisher, brag I did!

I completed each of the thirty-five queries. As it turned out the process forced me to shrink my conceptualization of my book down into sound bites. I had previously found “the elevator presentation” hard to manage.Every author needs to describe his/her book in simple declarative sentences that weave a strong argument for buying it. To be sure, completing the questionnaire helped me with this effort.

Feeling like this guy?

Feeling like this guy?

 

Winding my way through the publishing maze has at times made me feel like the mouse in this cartoon. It is doable but at various points in the process-confusing.

I hope my experiences will interest some and help others attempting to publish their books. Who knows what lies ahead? Publishing is not for the faint-hearted!

Agents, Publishers, and Editors, Oh My!– Part IV

Creative Writing, Medicine and Humanism, The Writing Process March 21, 2015 1 Comment

Seeking an agent is, of course, optional. Nevertheless, sending your work “over the transom” to publishing houses frequently lands it in their circular files. Publishing houses say they do not have time to review every manuscript they receive. But even finding an agent can be challenging. So what are ink-stained minions to do?

Various books such as Literary Digest exist with the names and locations of agents. These can be sought out and agents identified willing to review material from new authors as well as their expertise in the genre you write.

For me, I found two potential agents at the Harvard Medical Writer’s Conference. The conference had  distilled down the pool of agents to those interested in doctor stories. I submitted to these two and, to my surprise, both wanted to represent me. This represents the only time the time frame of the publishing process was shorter than anticipated. I know my ease in finding an agent is not the norm. Good luck!

I quickly learned from my experienced agent, Don Fehr, at Trident Media in NYC that publishers did not buy books, they only buy well-written and compelling book proposals. While I had labored mightily to complete my book proposal, Don with his knowledge had several suggestions that helped it. I lengthened the proposal to seventy-five pages, bolstered several sections (especially the comparative literature section), and cut off one sample chapter. An agent possesses knowledge about to whom the proposal should be sent. I didn’t have a clue about this and the fifteen percent fee charged by my agent seemed entirely reasonable.

My agent submitted the proposal serially in three lots. I learned from observing these acts of literary commerce that all publishers are not necessarily timely in responding, even from agents whom they know well. Months became years. The waiting time for me crept by like a caterpillar with sore feet.

The initial responses when they finally arrived consisted of “we do not have experience or expertise with this kind of book,” or “we are having to limit ourselves to only a few publications this year, or similar “passes.” “Passes”, hell, each and every one felt like a searing, bald-faced rejection, a real punch in the groin. So what if thirty-three rejections occurred before the final ACCEPTANCE? How sweet the acceptance.

Texas Tech University Press received my proposal with enthusiasm and asked me to submit the full manuscript. Another six months unfortunately slipped by when the then Director of Tech Press unexpectedly retired and failed to pass my book to a colleague or to even download it into their system. When eventually the error was discovered, my submitted book took flight, winging its way to two external reviewers. Both mercifully provided prompt and strongly positive endorsements.

My wonderful editor at Tech Press, Joanna Conrad, made several deft observations and tactful requests. I worked for three months responding to her requests that consisted largely of personalizing the manuscript more. What had been a combination memoir and medical narrative became a stronger physician’s memoir. After addressing her edits, the manuscript was re-submitted and was better for the extra effort.

A final editorial committee (you just knew there would be a committee at a university publishing house somewhere) gave the book a big thumbs up along with a positive recommendation from the Editor at Texas Tech University Press. Voila! I am at last to be published! Praise the Lord and pass the champagne!

At this point I thought my portion of the publishing process was largely completed. Again, my assumption would be proved wrong.

 

So You Want To Write-Part 3: Benefits and Perils of Critique Groups

Creative Writing March 10, 2015 Leave a comment

Critique Groups offer benefits and perils. Insight, tact, writing ability, and perseverance are all qualities important for a successful critique group. But of course not all members of writing groups possess all of these abilities.

Several purposes exist for a critique group, it seems to me. Writers swing wildly between falling in love with their work and hating it. The critique group can moderate these wild bipolar swings in temperment.

A critique group may act as therapist, encouraging shy writers to take risks and for others mitigate the  urges of out-of-control ink slingers. Nevertheless to offer this insight requires tact.

I have observed writers, clearly in love with their work, become balky when even mildly criticized. In response to criticism I have observed a few stop writing altogether and quit the group in a huff.

I personally think it useful to begin by saying something positive about the work, offer polite suggestions for improvement, and then close by saying something else nice about the piece. The so-called sandwich approach works for Toastmasters International, why wouldn’t it work for critique groups?

I have also observed some writers who are impervious to repeated corrections from multiple members of the group. Sometimes repeated advice acts like rain failing to penetrate a rock. Such people would try the patience of Job.

Having a modicum of ability benefits the overall group. Frankly not everyone can write in an engaging or interesting fashion. Chalk on the blackboard-type writing tests one’s patience, especially if the neophyte writer is closed off to suggestions.

Some people simply want an audience for their work and do not wish to be critiqued. These people should not be in a critique group but instead require patient and loving families and friends who are, ahem, easily entertained.

A desire to improve one’s writing and a willingness (call it thick skin) to endure less than stellar reviews are necessary for improvement.

Over the years I have had the pleasure of hearing the work of scientific writers, romance novelists, action writers, writers for adolescent works, and science fiction writers among others. Surprisingly, all have provided me benefit. If nothing else, I have learned the differing techniques that go into engaging and interesting writing from their perspectives.

I personally think a mixed genre group helps the overall group. Not only does it draw upon different approaches, it also reduces competition. After all aren’t we all a little bit competitive in what we strive to do?

Perseverance may seem an opaque requirement, but in my experience various writing groups have repeatedly broken up and been reconstituted. Fortunately I have for years now been associated with a stable group, the members for which I have great respect. Frankly, to be willing to share one’s innermost thoughts and feelings requires a great deal of trust. Such trust must be developed over time and with nonjudgmental individuals.

Imagine trying to read your first attempt at erotic literature before a group of strangers. It would not work. In a good critique group you will become more comfortable reading your work and discussing sensitive topics than you would be with your family or close friends. Such learned trust is a must for a good critique group.

So You Want To Write-Part 2: The Early Days

The Writing Process March 5, 2015 1 Comment

I suppose for years I’ve harbored the desire to write for a popular audience. A strange visceral need to be sure, but after it strikes, it’s hard to deny.

While practicing medicine, I would cubbyhole an interesting case file or article to later return to for inspiration. Some dramatic experiences in medicine simply demanded more processing time than my busy medical practice would allow. These records, by the way, helped me develop the stories for my forthcoming book, Carrying the Black Bag: A Doctor’s Story.

Not long after retiring from neurology, I signed up for popular writing classes at the Texas Tech University Higher Education Teaching Site in Fredericksburg, Texas. A retired writing professor who had relocated from a faculty at Houston university taught these courses.

At the time I felt I had a reasonable understanding how to write for a popular audience. After all, I had edited some five medical books and authored over 100 scientific articles and chapters. Wow, was I wrong!

Not only did my scientific writing skills not help, in some ways they impeded my progress toward  writing for a popular audience. I would never have suspected this.

Scientific writing must be concise. The space available in scientific journals is precious indeed and editors are maniacal in their attempts to excise excessive verbiage. This results from more worthy articles being submitted than there is space to print them.

I had also mastered the unfortunate but well ingrained habit of using jargon and passive voice. I had earlier been discouraged by journal editors from using popular writing devices such as similes, metaphors, and alliteration. Colorful description in scientific articles was absolutely verboten.

This painful lesson I learned early on from a irritable editor. (In an earlier draft I used the term dyspeptic editor, resorting again to a term not commonly understand. Over learned writing habits are hard to break as I just proved.) The jargon impedes communication to a popular audience to be sure, although it shortens the description necessary-a cardinal requirement for scientific writing.

When writing for a popular audience, I found having to monitor my word choice closely to avoid this insidious habit of using jargon. Lets face it–scientific writing is dull reading and impenetrable if lacking the professional jargon.

Scientific writing also follows on from studies for which data and methods exist. Popular writing has less rules and demands greater creativity. The guideposts are less obvious for popular writing. Any of you with an MFA in creative writing feel free to differ with me on this point.

I remember one day in class being given a general topic to write on and having a devil of a time being creative enough to write a story about it. The idea seemed to come out of no where and lacked context. There had been no experiments, no case file to review, and no scientific literature from which to begin. Ah, the terror of a blank page reared its ugly head! Needless to say, my class offering was short in the extreme.

Naturally, I became most comfortable writing about topics about which I knew something–experiences from medicine and my new found retirement to a Texas cattle ranch. Nevertheless, i have over the years learned to dabble in fiction and occasionally to venture further afield from my comfort zone. While my fiction is of poorer quality than I desire, my attempts as they have unspooled at least have loosened me up.

At the conclusion of my writing classes, I realized I was having such a good time that I did not want to stop. I suggested to several of my classmates (old friends at this juncture) we form a writer’s critique group. Just because our instructor had decided to stop teaching did not mean that we had to stop meeting. This venture soon proved a helpful exercise about which I shall write next. Critique groups are extremely useful but certain precautions are needed. My opinion springs from having experienced both positive and negative outcomes. More later.