March 13th, 2023 - How I Became a Vet
Dear TNY,
“How I Became a Vet”…ugh.
I don’t want to rip into you week after week. But it seems that’s what I’m doing.
I didn’t hate this story. In fact, if you pull away from the craft, I like the “plot” if you will. That of the vet with sort-of imposter syndrome about not being a real vet until she understands the dogs, and herself, by finding the mink. I’m into that. But the voice in this is that of someone further down the autistic spectrum. Which, that’s fine. Like any voice, it just needs to be used correctly. I think that voice has a time and place, and can make a story seem much richer by juxtaposition than a different type of voice. But here? I don’t know. I’m not sold. I felt like I couldn’t get emotionally invested in anything (except the mink/ground-laying) because of that voice. And I don’t feel like the external story reality vs MC filter was separated enough to create the distance necessary to see what was objectively happening out in the world vs what was coming through the filter of the character. It all just felt flat and grey and analytical, as seen through the MC’s eyes (say what you will about The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time being written by a dude who is not on the spectrum (and all the non-representation and non-expertise that entails), but that story had two very distinct stories going on: that of the child, and that of the real world; this story only had that of the MC, as her filter broadcasted across the world, leaving the story feeling as flat and emotionless as she was (she? was it a she? shouldn’t I know for sure?)).
I like the description of the Irish wolfhound looking like “the ghost of a horse.” That’s brilliant. And these two sentences contain exactly the type of detail that sells a story: He had jumped out of the truck and off the bridge over the Arikaree Creek, on Highway 119. The dog’s name was Ohio.
I really didn’t like the first paragraph. Because in the first two sentences I was enraged at the disregard for veterans, or at least the miscategorization of them, or maybe it was just the flat-out generalization, and I wrote a comment about it, but then the author went on to explain that the generalities that he or she just made were, in fact, incorrect, which is what my comment stated, and then the author went on to muse about this and that, making no points at all, disarming all cohesive thought, and then just ended that useless shit and began the next paragraph about joy. Dumb. Why have the whole paragraph in the first place? What’s the point of making a point, disarming the point, and then wandering around aimlessly until you get bored? I think they call that throat-clearing, and this was textbook. Edit, editor. It is your paid function.
I don’t know. I just wasn’t feeling this story from an empathy standpoint. Curiosity about the dog jumps? Yessir. But I wasn’t full-on connected to this story, like a Na’vi and a Tulkun. So, I’m just watching, not feeling. And that’s not art, you know?
Anywhoozle, I hiked a hike yesterday that I almost had to be heli-evaced out of. It was very, very, very steep. And muddy. And death on all sides. And I was solo. And out of shape. And underestimated the amount of water I needed. And had very wrong shoes. But I was living, goddamn it. And I got quad cramps and hammy cramps and foot cramps and asshole cramps and toe cramps. I grabbed a tallboy Stella (as Jeremy Clarkson would say, a beer that lets other people know you beat your wife) at the convenient store on the walk back to the house and used it to wash down some sour Airheads. I struggled to get into the shower. A goddamn hero.
Things in Hawaii are going well. I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t know what’s going on. I don’t know what will happen. I don’t know what’s happening even now. But I know I don’t want to die and I look forward to most days. That’s pretty fucking cool.
You may have noticed a lack of conflict in my life as well. So, you know, this plan is working.
Later, banal-story-dictator.
Nick
