The Dog Year by Ann Wertz Garvin

The Dog Year by Ann Wertz Garvin
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

Step inside The Dog Year and meet Dr. Lucy Peterman, a plastic surgeon struggling to navigate her life after losing her husband and unborn child. She copes by stealing hospital supplies and stockpiling them in her bedroom. Until she gets caught, and discovers she can't continue through life without help from friends.

Peopled with realistic human characters, The Dog Year contains many life lessons and a generous dose of humor, tempered with just the right amount of sadness.

Ann Garvin just might become your new favorite author. I'm lucky enough to possess a copy of The Dog Year signed by Ann herself--if you have a chance to hear her speak, do it!


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Me Before You

Me Before You by Jojo Moyes
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

When the diner where Louisa Clark works closes and she loses her job, she tries a few unpalatable positions (including one at a chicken factory) before finding a position as a caretaker for a quadraplegic man.  Will Traynor had led a big life before he was hit by a motorcycle and all but died.  He's resentful of the remnants of his life, and hates relying on others for every aspect of his care.  Louisa gradually warms to him, and this is the tale of their relationship.

It's also the story of Louisa's family and their various relationships, and of her boyfriend and how she fits in (or doesn't) with his circle of friends. It's about loners and dreamers and hope and fear.


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What Alice Forgot

What Alice Forgot by Liane Moriarty
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

I spent the last three days engrossed in the story of Alice and her sudden memory loss.  It begins when she falls off her bike in spin class;  when she comes to, she believes it's 1998 (it's actually 2008) and she's shocked at her flattened stomach and toned physique, has no recollection of her three children, and thinks she's still in the early, easy years of her marriage.  She's on the brink of divorce, and she can't remember why.

As Alice struggles to remember, she pieces little glimpses of her past back together and reconciles with her sister.  She's appalled at what she learns about her 39-year-old self, and tries to re-establish her 29-year-old self as she remembers it.

This book really made me think about what I would have missed out on in the last ten years.  A very enjoyable read, with a satisfying ending!  Liane Moriarty hasn't disappointed me yet.


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It's All Relative

It's All Relative: Two Families, Three Dogs, 34 Holidays, and 50 Boxes of Wine by Wade Rouse
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

Wade Rouse takes the reader on a year-long journey through holidays large and small, sharing his experiences in his signature self-deprecating way.  The book progresses from New Year's Eve to Christmas, with stops along the way for important traditional holidays, as well as Chinese New Year, the Pez Collectors' National Convention, and Barbie's birthday.

Wade lets you in and gives you a glimpse of his life, his family, his foibles, his successes.  His writing is deep and true, and you'll find yourself laughing at least once during each essay, even as Wade learns life lessons and accepts his own talents and limitations.

Read this book to gain a better understanding of human nature, friendship, relationships, family and self.  And laugh at each witty turn of phrase.



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Range of Motion

Range Of Motion by Elizabeth Berg
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

This is the realistic, yet somehow uplifting, story of a wife's grief over her comatose husband.  The first few lines of the book reveal Lainey's numb shock over the absurdity of her husband becoming the victim of a large chunk of ice falling off a roof.  Lainey puts as much of her life on hold as she can, shelving her job and caring for her two daughters like a not-quite-single mom.  Lainey's neighbor Alice proves indispensable, shuffling over in her bathrobe from the other side of the duplex to watch Lainey's daughters or bolster Lainey's spirits.  In return, Lainey listens to Alice's marital woes and maintains the friendship both women desperately need.

Lainey's tireless belief in Jay's recovery sustains her most days, and she brings many sensory experiences to his hospital room.  HIs favorite shirts, his daughters' artwork, photographs and kitchen spices, his favorite cologne are all faithfully presented to Jay with the hope he'll respond.

I won't give away the ending here--this is a book worth reading, and the characters will stick with you for a long time.


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Memorable Memoirs

I just finished reading two memoirs, each one interesting and completely different from the other. The first one I read was Take Good Care of the Garden and the Dogs by Heather Lende, which takes place in Haines, Alaska. We just returned from a visit to Haines in August, and I bought this book as a gift for my friend who was taking good care of my dog while we traveled. We frequently buy each other books so we can swap them at the next Bookworms Anonymous meeting, which is how I came to read this one (www.bookwormsanonymous.com). Heather recounts her life-threatening, life-altering, life-affirming accident and her rescue and recovery, as well as other events over the span of about two years, sharing her daily life, funny and sad moments and her spiritual growth. She depicts her small, friendly town well--I felt like I was there again and longed to return, to meet more people and maybe even meet Heather at the Mountain Market for a cup of coffee.


After Heather's spirit-lifting tale I began reading At Least in the City Someone Would Hear Me Scream by Wade Rouse. This hilarious tale takes place in southern Michigan, near the Saugatuck-Douglas area, and it's about Wade's and his partner Gary's quest to live a Thoreau-esque life by leaving behind all of their "urban tchotchke" and living the simple life in a cabin in the woods. Wade's recounting of their adventures in WalMart and gardening and his descriptions of everything from the locals' appearances and attitudes to his own wardrobe had me laughing out loud. Gary channels Lucy Ricardo, seeking guidance on social etiquette and expectations. He intersperses his own tale with passages from Thoreau's Walden, and shares some of his childhood angst and the challenges and prejudice he faced growing up gay. I recommend this to anyone who needs a good belly laugh--it's like a sitcom in print.

Public Appearance: Yikes!

I will be speaking at the De Tour Library on Wednesday, August 25, 2010 at 6:30 pm.

My speech will include comments about the writing process as well as the book club that inspired my first book, Bookworms Anonymous. Both of my books will be available for sale and 20% of the gross sales will be donated to the DeTour Library.


I can't guarantee the quality of my presentation: I earned straight As in both high school and college speech classes, but those speeches were usually about things I didn't care about and were restricted to five minutes maximum. I once spoke to a peer group when I worked for a credit union for one hour about the future of the credit union for which I worked, and I have very hazy recollections of that presentation. I suspect I entered an alternate mental state and somehow muddled through.

So, please attend, with high hopes but low expectations, and we'll see what happens.

It Doesn't Look Like I'm Writing...

I started writing my third book. It's roughly outlined and I have extensive disjointed notes designed to capture my bright ideas in cryptically phrased snippets. I already know the contents of the table of contents and the appendix. I even have a list of glossary words! But I'm at a standstill.

I haven't written more than a paragraph in the past week.

Of course, writing involves mental effort and angst and mind stretching brainstorming sessions. The physical act of writing or typing is the only visible proof that such activity has occurred, but it's difficult to measure the hours spent agonizing over each word in the first sentence before it is recorded for the first time (I'll revise it several times before exposing it to another reader).

I'm hoping this slump is actually a subconsciously energetic session of word jockeying and theme building, and tomorrow I'll start writing chapters at a time, so compelling I'll be unable to close the laptop and focus on the view outside the window. I'll probably wake up in the middle of the night to record some ephemeral notion, earmarked for inclusion in a specific passage. It's time to focus. Again, hoping the subconscious has been fine tuning all along.

A speaker at the seminar I recently attended in Madison, Wisconsin said (I'm paraphrasing): Every writer experiences an uncontrollable urge, a compulsion, a desire within their soul, to write. Every writer absolutely can not survive without writing and must do so every single day, except right now.

She went on to assure us our subconscious minds are working on our craft even when our fingers aren't, and we should relax and allow our powerful, magical minds to operate and eventually produce pitch perfect prose.

Reading Groups & Public Speaking

A semi-local (25 miles away) reading group asked me to speak at one of their upcoming meetings. Does this constitute public speaking? Because public speaking is one of my irrational fears, along with mice, small spaces with only one exit and flying, all of which produce enough anxiety to cause a quavery voice, shaking hands and a sweaty upper lip.

I experience the cliche author anxiety directly linked to defending my writing to those who either disagree with it or don't understand it, and I fear sounding foolish. Always able to imagine what I should have said in a given situation hours after it ends, I'm never able to produce a suitable response during a debate or confrontation. Oh, the frustration! If only I could 'speak' via hand written or typed letters, mailed back and forth, so each response would allow at least a day's rumination.

So, my fear of public speaking must be analyzed, addressed and hopefully dismissed. What is the worst case scenario? Has anyone ever died of public speaking (assuming they weren't shot)? No. The internal angst alone has yet to kill anyone. I can safely enter any public speaking situation with the knowledge that it will not kill me. (This is how I survived childbirth--I told myself people don't die from it in this day and age. I knew this was false, but I managed to convince myself it was true.)

With death removed as a possible outcome, appearing foolish or unprepared are the only remaining possibilities and they are much less dire.

So, I will dress the part and practice a five-minute speech (like high school Speech class--remember that? Five minutes was an eternity back then) and I'll field the questions. Maybe I'd better practice stall tactics to give myself time to ruminate and increase the odds of producing an intelligent answer...

Facing My Fears

It's painful and shameful to divulge, but at the risk of reducing my reputation to that of a cowering idiot, I must concede: I'm afraid of mice.

The word 'afraid' doesn't communicate the full force of my affliction. Mice terrify me; they repulse me. I know and understand the reality of their minuscule proportions, and yet, when I witness one scurrying through the garage or (horrors! I'm trapped!) the basement, it appears gargantuan. The smallest mouse I've observed was the size of a football and the largest, a small dog. Yes, I realize my mental images are obscuring reality and the mice are actually smaller than my fist (eww! Imagine one touching my hand!) but my stomach retains its contents only because of my superior vomit prevention mechanism, often exercised this time of year when the mouse population is high and they are all seeking shelter.

When I was a child I read books about mice. The Mouse and the Motorcycle was one of my favorites, and of course I read Stuart Little and a collection of others. Unfortunately, real mice do not don Victorian waistcoats and tiny spectacles; they don't converse about erudite topics; they don't travel under one's hat or drive little cars. They certainly don't know how to prepare gourmet meals (or was that a rat, in the movie 'Ratatouille'? Must have been a rat. Shivers--even larger than a mouse!)

So the fear has become debillitating: the other night as I pulled into the garage at home, I noticed a mouse streaking across the floor. My reaction never varies, so I endured the entire anxiety/panic attack as my stomach clenched, I heard a rushing sound in my ears, I broke out in goosebumps, my hands gripped the steering wheel, my bladder threatened to release its contents, and I may have forgotten to breathe for a minute or two. The mouse was unaffected, frolicking happily, seeking a dark tunnel (of course I checked my pant legs: firmly pulled down around my shoes, no gaping invitation there). In light of this debillitation, I decided to face my fear and set traps for these dirty rodents. My husband normally sets the traps, but he's tired of my irrational fear and tired of emptying traps.

My method will be twofold: (1) a line of traps, which will be treated as disposables so I will never have to touch the cadavers and (2) a Polish mouse trap made with a bucket, a beer can and some peanut butter, which I can empty at arms' length while frantically inhaling fresh air over my other shoulder. The annihilation of the mouse population at Honeymoon Acres will commence this Sunday (Nov 29) after I gather my supplies. The result should also be twofold: (1) there will be no more mice on the premises, at least until next year's batch moves in and (2) I will no longer be handicapped by the mere sight of a tiny rodent smaller than my (gulp) fist.