dear doctor book:: A CASE OF MISTAKEN IDENTITY

Dear Dr. Book:
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WHO, AND WHERE THE DICKENS, IS DR. BOOK?

I am often asked who and where Dr. Book is. Here is the shortest answer I can give. My relationship with Dr. Book is rather like the relationship parents wish they had with Santa Claus: I put your requests in the mail and her gifts are delivered, although we never actually meet. In our case, of course, an electronic mailbox is used, further shrouding the Doctor and her location in mystery. Beyond her email address, which I am contractually prohibited from sharing, I haven’t got a clue. And to be honest, I don’t want to have one. There is a reason I suggested her initials might stand for Poisonous Bane. If she met us she might not like us, and if she did not like us she might no longer answer our letters, and then where would all of you be?

DR. BOOK'S DISPUTED NAME

DR. BOOK'S EMBITTERING LIFE

Dr. Book knew for certain that she would one day be a writer the very first day she put the corner of her Fuzzy Feel-Em Farm Animals book into her mouth and discovered a taste for writing. Pleased that she had settled the vexatious question of vocation, she sat back and waited for her parents to do what any family must to nuture their child's future in the arts. You know the kind of things we mean. Addiction. Conflict. Abandonment. Divorce. Clinically diagnosable disorders of considerable rarity and/or drama, such as Elephantiasis or Stiff Person Syndrome. Bankruptcy. Incest. (Wince if you will, but the extraordinary Kathryn Harrison got two books out of it.) Dr. Book waited. And waited. Yet still her family did not oblige, mustering no more than a mild neuroticism, and even that only at holiday gatherings. Stunned by their lack of support, Dr. Book realized that she would never have the intensity necessary to become a great writer, or even the material needed to write a modestly salable bildungsroman. At twenty, the now-aimless Dr. Book moved to Manhattan and attempted to solace herself through overindulgence in Indian food and the purchase of expensive shoes: a period sometimes referred to as her Lost Years, though perhaps the term "Louboutin Years" might be more appropriate. When her festive disregard of matters financial threatened her and her shoes with eviction, Dr. Book realized that she must find a paying job. Some musing over a tasty saag paneer told her that while she could not write a great book, she could nevertheless be a great book doctor. Or perhaps, if not a great book doctor, at least a greatly bitchy book doctor. To rephrase the popular saying in the Doctor's inimitable style: those who can't do, can at least make those who can do miserable.

THE BOOK DOCTOR WILL SEE YOU NOW. AND SHE'S WEARING KILLER STILETTOS.

Thursday, June 10, 2010

A CASE OF MISTAKEN IDENTITY

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WHO, AND WHERE THE DICKENS, IS DR. BOOK?

THE DOCTOR IN HER YOUTH, ALREADY THINKING THAT MOST FOLKS ARE DAMN FOOLS

DR. BOOK'S DISPUTED NAME

IF YOU DARE...

DR. BOOK'S EMBITTERING LIFE

My Blog List

AN IMAGE WITH ABSOLUTELY NO REVELANCE, EXCEPT THAT DR. BOOK LIKES IT

DR. BOOK'S AUNT DAPHNE, A WRITER OF VILLANELLES AND A LOVER OF ANIMALS BOTH LIVING AND DEAD