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Every week I receive a number of manuscripts, books, and email attachments from authors requesting that I read the material and provide them with a review or other comments.  I receive many more emails simply asking if I would be willing to read and review a manuscript if it was sent my way.  Some of these materials come direct from publishers; the rest are sent by the author personally.  Nearly all of them are posted politely and without onus, but I get guilt pangs anyway, because, A) guilt (lapsed post-Calvinist flavor) is one of my specialties, and B) I know I probably won’t be able to fulfill the request.

I love to read.  I love to read even more than I love to write.  Well, wait a minute, that was a tad hasty, I’d say it’s 50/50.  But the preponderance of my reading is tied to something I’m writing.  And when I’m not reading something for purposes of researching or fleshing out a specific writing project, I’m chiseling away at the “life list” of Things I Just Gotta Read Before I Croak and Who Knows When That Might Be.  My office is filled with stacks and stacks of books read and unread and so is my pole barn (and let’s not even discuss my electronic and audiobook devices).

All of these books are a happy problem.

Also a happy problem: The 80-100 days I spend on the road researching writing projects or trying to get my own work out there to a wider audience.  Worth every second when I get to shake hands and thank readers in person.  Plus I have gotten a lot of writing done in the Super 8.

Not a problem at all: The blessed responsibility to spend some time on Dadhood.

What I’m working up to here – I’m a bit of a beat-around-the-bush’er when it comes to saying anything but “yes” – is that the odds of me being able to read or comment on something sent my way are vanishingly slim.  It is not impossible, but it is sitting on Impossible’s couch.  And I don’t take this lightly, because I have had many people – known and not known – offer kind and boostful words in the days since I first got serious about typing.  So what I want you to know is that if you sent me something and I didn’t get to it or write it up somehow somewhere, it wasn’t because I was being snooty or snotty or formed grim opinions, it was simply because I’m working and being my version of Dad, and you should grow neither meek nor thunderous nor should you lose heart but rather press on and write and write, and write some more, and set up talks and signings and read at open mic events and go on book tours if they’re arranged and set up your own if they’re not, and grow your audience one reader at a time, and set up your blog and tend it and write some more and share your work and just don’t stop unless it’s not fun anymore.  That’s what worked for me.  And it’s still fun.  I’m a lucky fool to have fallen on this wagon, and I know it.

In Coop I included a section on bovine artificial insemination. Although I strive to write only the most delicate prose, at one point I do set a scene in which the insemination technician (we just called him “the breeder man”) has his arm well up a cow’s rectum.

This has elicited questions from the reading public. They are not alone. Their very same query was raised previously during the editing process. So perhaps the best way to provide the definitive answer is to share a portion of the original exchange.

It began with an email from my editor’s assistant, Jason:

The proofreader raised two questions for you, which I copied below.  Please do let us know where you stand on these finer points of husbandry.

Thanks,
Jason

The note from the proofreader read:

Cows: In the description of inseminating the cows on p. 65, the author writes, “all things considered, their reaction to having a stranger’s arm elbow-deep up the rectum was positively restrained.”  The proofreader wondered whether, since the cows are being inseminated, “rectum” was correct–should it read “vagina” instead?

I replied with an email of my own:

I can respectfully state from a position of firm authority that “rectum” is correct.  The arm is inserted in that specific orifice in order to perform “rectal palpation,” a discomfiting but functional procedure allowing the inseminator to grasp and manipulate the bovine cervix through the pliable rectal wall in a manner calculated to guide insertion of the insemination pipette through the rings of the cervix and into the uterus.  To sum up, and for future reference: Arm in rectum, pipette in vagina.

I was quite proud of myself.  Country mouse educating the folks in New York city, that whole bit.  But my smug didn’t last long, because with one well-placed deadpan pun, Jason hit the gamewinner:

Great–thanks for the big picture.  I’ll rectify the proofreader.

Sometimes I get emails from people wondering what I’ve written in their books.  When asked I personalize them as the reader wishes, but in general I sign a specific thing for each book:

Population 485: Welcome to “Nobbern!” (We locals call New Auburn “Nobbern” or “Nauburn” or any variant spelling thereof.)

Off Main Street: I draw an empty thought bubble above the author photo.  You can fill in your own saying or — this is frankly more appropriate — simply leave the bubble empty.

Truck: Double Clutch! This phrase will be understood by drivers of a certain age.  Failing that, it is explained in the book.

Coop: Oink-a-doodle-doo! Meant to reflect the inclusion of both pigs and chickens in the book.  Sadly, due to my fitful penmanship, many people think I have written, Dink-a-doodle-doo.

I get asked these questions, well, frequently. Just click for the answers. I can’t guarantee that they are the right answers, but they are my best attempt to balance hope with reality. Many of them are lifted straight from emails I sent to some of the folks who have asked these questions previously. Some of the answers are a little disappointing or daunting. I guy sure doesn’t want to be a downer. But I wouldn’t want to insult you with anything less than a frank answer. When I say I’m a lucky guy, I mean it. I just wrote and wrote and wrote for years, and then one day (after nearly a decade of writing every day and submitting work every month) the marbles aligned, not that the metaphor is perfect. I’m still trying to keep those marbles in line, and the table is forever tipping.

• What is Your Writing Process Like?
• How Do I Get An Agent?
• How Do I Get Published/Make Living As A Writer?
• Can I Send You My Writing?
• Are you still on the New Auburn fire department?

Organic, to put it politely.  I start jotting notes and fragments and throw them all into one big file.  These can be three-word scribbles from a gum wrapper or an 800-word brain dump.  Then I print them all out and try to sort them by some sort of topical means.  For instance I draw little triangles beside everything having to do with trucks, circles by everything having to do with gardening, a question mark beside everything related to existentialism, and so on.  Then I cut and paste until all the triangles, circles, squiggles, etc., are clustered.  Then I begin to write what I call “chunks”, which is a rare literary term.  Then I print the chunks out, over and over, cutting them apart with scissors and moving them around on the floor as if I am engaged in a desperate game of quasi-literary solitaire.  Eventually the chunks enlarge and cohere, and I start finding chapters.  Once I have chapters, then I get to revise and polish, which is actually my favorite part of the process.  I love to polish and polish.  My editor finally demands that I turn it all in.  In short, my writing process is unpretty and more like grunting than singing.

The results are mixed.  People tell me this.  So it goes.