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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.

Mighty tough.  I wrote for years without an agent, and then one found me.  Some time ago the site Rebecca’s Reads asked me to share how it happened.  Here’s what I wrote:

“I got lucky. It’s that simple. I didn’t find an agent, she found me. I started freelancing in the late 1980s. Everything from writing newsletter blurbs to typing up copy for used car radio commercials. Whatever it took.

In the late 1990s I wrote a magazine profile of a novelist. The piece got killed, but unbeknownst to me the novelist recommended his agent track down “this long-haired writer from Wisconsin.” And so she did. A call (or email, I don’t remember) out of the blue one day. My life didn’t change overnight but the pace and quality of gigs definitely picked up.
Now my long hair is long gone, but my agent remains. I am overwhelmed and grateful that she’s out there pitching for me. I don’t call her unless there’s business to be done, but I keep her picture taped to the wall by my desk. I have drawn in a little thought balloon that says, “I wonder if Michael Perry is writing?””

I had a brief association with an agent in the early 1990s that could be charitably characterized as the classic “learning experience.” After paying her retainer and being underwhelmed with her efforts (turned out she was no more of an “insider” than I, and furthermore, submitted at half the pace) I expressed my dissatisfaction. She replied by threatening to sue me for breach of contract. This struck me as uncharitable. Thankfully, one of my pay-the-rent jobs involved writing customer service letters to disgruntled attorneys, and I was able to compose a faux legalese beauty that convinced her to turn me loose and leave me alone.

I just kept writing, cranking things out, pitching stuff on my own and self-publishing several books to sell from the car trunk.