There’s something about airports that gets me in the writing mood. It’s probably because any time I’m in the airport, by default it means that I’m not on call/working at the Day Job. (Okay, that’s kind of a fib. I totally just logged off the EMR where I was putting out a few fires right before this plane boards. Anyway.)
 
There’s a saying in medicine: “You want care that is Good, Fast, and Cheap? Just know that you can’t have all three – you have to pick two.” Yes, there might be some public health folks who disagree, but just go with me on this one, because in broad brushstrokes, it’s true.
 
You know what else is true? I can’t have Medicine, Manuscripts, and Mayhem all at the same time. I have to pick two to focus on at any given time. As writers, we’re always picking two out of the three things. Or sometimes we’re choosing two out of four or more aspects of our lives for our focs! We’re making that seesaw balance, back and forth, all the time.
 
A weekend on call where I had hoped to edit 50 pages of manuscript? That plan got blown to bits with the 3 C-sections (1 crash section, 1 emergent) and ten adult admissions (2 into the ICU on vents, one of whom got transferred later that night). Did I get Medicine? Yes. Did I get Mayhem? Check. Manuscripts? NOPE.
 
What about when I was on call for a holiday but only had two admissions? You betcha I edited for all I was worth. Medicine + Manuscripts. But no Mayhem (thank goodness).
 
And what about the time I tried to outline a brand new book and series while on a busy vacation where my burnt-out brain didn’t want to work? Mayhem + Manuscripts. But no Medicine.
 
As authors and as humans, there is only so much we can handle at any given time, and at the end of the day it’s all about getting that seesaw to level out. Each person has to find that balance point, whether it’s writing + family + illness + work + moving + crazy life. Sometimes, though, it takes all of our effort to get that stupid seesaw back to level. But when we do? It’s magic.

A few weeks back, I was reading a chick-lit sweet Amish story* with lots of police procedural elements. Totally got immersed in the world and believed every detail that author dished out. Why? Because I had zero clue otherwise. My life is the exact polar opposite of “police procedural”. And legal stuff? I can’t tell the difference between “so moved” and “sustained”. Lordie help me if someone wants me to define a tort. (If I’m not mistaken, that’s a lovely lemony treat, right?)
 
Then in that same novel, something medical happened where stuff like guts or blood or bones or some anatomically gross thing happened. Of course, I’m eating all of that description up like…well, like a yummy torte…because of my Day Job. (I kind of dig blood ‘n’ guts.)
 
But then it happened. The author tripped and fell down. Like, total swing and a miss. This awesome, immersive experience grabbed me by the scruff of the neck and hurled me out of book. Kind of like when in one of the Star Trek episodes they get thrown out of warp and how jarring that was with space-time and atoms splitting and stuff? Like that.
 
Lemony torte experience, ruined.
 
What happened? The author described an emergency tracheostomy. Of course, I’m like, yes I’m intrigued, bring it on, master author. But the description was wrong. It actually wasn’t a little bit wrong, it was All Wrong. The only way it could be wronger was if the dude had shoved the tube through the victim’s eyeball. That much wrong.
 
This author describes making an incision nowhere near the victim’s Adam’s apple/cricoid but way down at the base of the neck. Nope! Then the author described shoving the tube into the “esophagus”. Double nope! Not only is that maneuver anatomically not possible (you have to go through the WINDPIPE before getting to the esophagus)…but if one truly did cannulate the esophagus? That’d be one dead patient.
 
So am I a medical writing snob? No, not at all, and that’s not the point. I would totally make the same mistake if I tried to write, say, a police procedural sweet Amish chick-lit military suspense* novel myself. I can’t even accurately identify the most basic of parts of your average assault rifle, much less a how to book someone into jail. And don’t even get me near a crime scene for evidence collection. If I wrote that crime scene in my humorous sidekick Amish sweet inspirational procedural*, no reader would believe it, unless they were under the influence of mescaline. Actually, even someone who has completely dissociated with every scrap of reality would still know I was 10 pounds of BS in a 5 pound sack when it came to legal/crime madcap buddy chick-lit inspirational* novels.
 
There is so much advice out there – pro and con – about whether we should write what we know.
 
However, based on that colossal fail example (to be fair, I’m sure that all authors have tripped at times) from that well-known and excellent Amish military suspense* author, I’m going to give you this woman’s opinion: Anyone writing outside of their expertise needs to meticulously research so that their madcap sweet inspirational military buddies-to-lovers* novel is believable. So much research is needed, that the author should either shadow people doing the tasks, personally learn to do them, or should pump anyone they know** for legit information on the topic.
 
Heck, I’m knee deep in blood, guts, and humanity on most days of my Day Job, and I still ask colleagues for help with details. I pulled our Friendly Neighborhood Orthopedic Surgeon*** over to ask questions about open tib-fib fractures, external fixation devices, return to weight-bearing time, and typical healing times – all for a book I’m working on. Let’s just say that #1) Dr. Jones has no sense of humor and #2) he probably thinks I have a tortured human locked in my basement or something. (#2 is mostly because I also asked him a question about depressed skull fractures. Because this is a rural area and we have no neurosurgeons here, so I went with the next best thing: bone doctor. Beggars/choosers, people. Use what resources you have available.)
 
And no, I do not have a body in the basement, as far as you know.
 
But what I’m trying to say here is that I believe authors should start off in the beginning by writing what you know best. It’ll be the most realistic writing you’ll do. Why? Because you’ll sound like an authority… because you ARE an authority. Your readers will believe all that super authoritative information. And later, when you take some creative liberty, it’s easier to slide it by the unsuspecting reader who has been lulled into complaisance by your Authority. (You see how “author” is part of “authority”? That’s not an accident.) Also, if you branch out into an area where you’re not an expert? Research the heck out of it and blend it with the stuff you know well to create beautiful verisimilitude.
 
But above all? Never, ever snatch away your reader’s lemony torte.****
 
 
 
 
FOOTNOTES:
 
*Novel types have been changed to reduce chances of identifying the author.
 
** “anyone they know” should involve people with some level of subject expertise. Not Joe Shmoe off the street. Just in case I was a bit nebulous with my advice there.
 
***Let’s acknowledge the truth: that description of my colleague is clearly a joke. Ortho folks generally don’t have a well-developed sense of humor. And yes, that’s stereotyping. But to date, I haven’t seen an example to refute overwhelming evidence of serious jock-types in orthopedics. And no that’s not sexist; this description appears equally true for female orthopods.
 
****Later research has revealed that “torte” is more of a generic term for a “sweet cake” and there are, like, thousands of varieties of tortes, including chocolate, vanilla, berry, and yes, lemon. In case you feel like I’m locking you into one type of torte, I’m not. You can have any kind you want.

​It’s getting super close to vacation. How do I know? Because I’m this close to losing my mind due to crazy Day Job. That’s typically the indicator light, warning me that it’s time to get away for a while. Sure enough, Day Job stupidity is about to make me lose my mind.
 

Image by Kenji Yamamoto on flickr.


​​The grass is always greener elsewhere, you say? Of course it is. But that’s not the point of today’s blog. The purpose of today’s blog is as an indulgent compare and contrast time for Day Job (medicine) vs. Night Job (writing). Let us commence the therapeutic hyperbole, for I have 20 more patients to see on Monday and then I am On Vacation. (Why Monday and not Friday before? Well. Yeah. I never claimed to be a genius.)
 
 
Day Job = Miracle of life (baby)
 
Night Job = Miracle of life (book baby)
 
Day Job = People with very narrow job descriptions and smidgen of power who make doing our job difficult or impossible. Many decisions take place in dark, smoke-filled rooms, behind the scenes.
 
Night Job = Ok, yeah. This happens everywhere.

Image by openDemocracy on flickr


​​ 
Day Job = I try hard not to hurt anyone and always want to make them better.
 
Night Job = I try hard to hurt all of my characters, and delay making them better until 95% of the book is done. Even then, most everyone walks with a limp when I’m finished with them. Given the soft tissue injures, it’s a mystery how there aren’t more wound infections in my books.
 
Day Job = Lots of blood and guts.
 
Night Job (at least the way I write) = Lots of blood and guts. And a recent fixation with broken bones and bone marrow oozing, it would appear.
 
 

Image by Jen Morgan on flickr


​Day Job = Make heartfelt comments at your own risk of life, limb and career.
 
Night Job = The more heartfelt comments you can make, the better the career.

Day Job = How to keep job and maintain sanity? Only show limited feelings to patients, and show zero feelings to administrators or other departments.
 
Night Job = All those feelings that got pent up all day long – bleeeaahhh. Right there on the page for all to see, and it feels so good! Sanity restored!

Image by Freedom House on flickr


​​ 
Day Job = Politics that I don’t understand.
 
Night Job = Politics that I don’t understand.
 
Day Job = Nice people who will do anything to help
 
Night Job = Nice people who will do anything to help
 
Day Job = Sometimes yeah, you have to just Google it.
 
Night Job = Sometimes yeah, you have to just Google it.
 
Day Job = Carpal tunnel risk due to excessive typing.
 
Night Job = Carpal tunnel risk due to excessive typing.
 

Image by Sebastien Wiertz on flickr


​Day Job = When there’s an emergency, you gotta go help.
 
Night Job = When there’s a great idea, and you gotta go type!
 
So which is better? Day Job or Night Job?
 
It’s like having two homely children. No way could I pick my favorite….

Just got back from a medical conference in Florida (had to stare at the beach while in meetings all day >sigh<), and I couldn't help it -- my head started to compare this conference to romance writers conferences. Granted this was a conference targeted toward a mix of all specialties and some of the topics trended toward second career/post-retirement/transitional work. So, it's a skewed age group maybe, but there you go.


Demographics:

Romance conference = full age spread (20-80) and 90% female (scents of nice perfume)

Medical conference = age spread 40 up to 75 and 70% male (scents of old spice and ben gay)


Keynote speaker:

Medical conference = acronyms for research studies promoting treatments that reduce morbidity

Romance conference = acronyms for "parts that go into parts" (m to v, v to p, etc.) promoting heaving bosoms and rapid breathing


Topics:

Medical conference = how to survive ACA changes, new drugs to improve erectile dysfunction (data cited throughout study, no diagrams)

Romance conference = how to survive first BDSM experience, numerous open discussions about sexuality (diagrams and/or verbal description provided in copious amounts)


Food:

Medical conference = salad, chicken, cheesecake

Romance conference = salad, chicken, cheesecake


Chatting with folks sitting next to me:

Medical conference = "Hi Bob, how is implementation of EMR going/use of drug-eluting stents/administrative work burden due to prior authorizations going?"

Romance conference = "Hi Dewy Desire, how is the scene about sex in zero-G going/use of rocket propulsion to improve orgasm/twitter feeds to improve marketing going?"


Cost:

Medical conference = Hospital paid me to go.

Romance conference = I footed 100% of bill.


Satisfaction:

Medical conference = Great information. Frustrating medical trends in physician autonomy and burdens of paperwork and bureaucracy. More tired at the end of conference.

Romance conference = Great information. Exciting trends in author autonomy/options for publication, discussion of marketing work needed. More energized at the end of conference.

Oh my, doesn't that title sound all romance-y and idealistic? Does it conjure up images of a perfectly groomed office and a woman in a fur-lined robe, madly typing away all day long, no cares in the world, eating boxes of perfectly packaged gourmet bon-bons whilst classical music wafts in an inspirational manner in the background?

So, here's the real day in the life of a procrastinating wannabe romance novelist.

Woke up to a cat grooming my head. Do you know what that weird kitty tongue does to hair? It pulls each individual strand, one at a time. Dammit, it's Saturday and I'm up before 7.

Kitty leads me to the fresh puke on the floor. Stares at me with a glint in her eye and then returns to bed where she promptly falls asleep. I am, unfortunately, wide awake. Snores from hubby emanate from the bedroom. Fabulous. Time for breakfast.

Yippee, Saturday. Sure, I'm on call, but there'll be plenty of time to get lots of writing done, right?

2 hours of my life, gone. Apparently the internet has taken me from Twitter to cute puppies to ASPCA videos to pitiful animals to news articles about animal cruelty. I'm mad about the pitiful animals, but haven't accomplished much more than wanting to get another pound kitty.

All right, after I check the Twitter feed, I'll be ready to write.

1.5 more hours later have elapsed. It's like I was in a coma. There are no memories of this time. Perhaps aliens have abducted me.

Even though I'm still in jammies, it's now time for lunch. Yes, in jammies. At some point, I should brush my teeth.

Out of jammies, finally. On treadmill, with freshly-brushed teeth, watching Game of Thrones. I'm going to say it: there are some really high quality abs, pectoralis muscles, and…other anatomical parts on these episodes. Walking faster through those aforementioned high-quality segments of the show.

After a shower, I'm ready to sit down and do some writing for the afternoon.

Until phone rings and emergency c-section ensues.

Dear lordie, that gal was 300 pounds and shaped like a sphere! I pulled an armpit muscle trying to get baby out of her pelvis. And the uterine repair was an adventure. Now all I can think about is wound healing, bleeding, and secondary infection, since her sub-q space (adipose layer) was 5-6 inches thick. That's a lot of space to have stuff go wrong. Dadgum.

Need a shower again. Between working hard and getting flop sweat when I couldn't get the uterus back into the abdomen for a minute there, and for the benefit of humanity, another shower is in order.

On a whim, hubby and I go out to eat and invite colleague and his wife to join us.

Colleague (old enough to be my father, by the way) proceeds to drink all of us under the table. I'm impressed. And thankful he's not on call. He apparently likes to say the word "cock" out of context and loudly. It's a small town. At least 3 patients I know look over at our table. I'll be hearing about this come Monday.

Back home a few hours later. Time to really REALLY work on writing. After checking Twitter and email first, that is.

Seriously, am I in some kind of time warp? It's already 10 pm? What the heck happened? Well, can't start writing now. I'm tired.

But there is time to do this blog about a day in the life of a (non writing) romance novelist….