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Friday, March 1, 2013

Guest Post: Adventures with Max and Louise by Ellyn Oaksmith

Why Every Writer Should Have A Dog by Ellyn Oaksmith

1)    They are great vacuums. You won’t have to take a break from writing when your sandwich falls on the ground. Although you will lose your lunch.

2)    They are great listeners, although their advice is not the best.

3)    They never talk back. Like children.

4)    They never ask for money. Like children.

5)    They will force you, in the worst weather, to get outside and exercise. Mudding trails or dark paths? No problem. Your dog will remind you several times a day that it is time to get outside.

6)    They force you to talk to other people. Even when your mind is consumed with plot points, your dog will run up to other people, pee on their picnic and force you to apologize and explain how exactly he got off his leash.

7)    They become the family therapist. No matter how tense the situation, a good dog can always bring levity to the matter at hand, forcing even the most stressed out person to smile.

8)    You never have to cook for them although they will ask you for dinner about 75 times a day.

9)    You never have to write alone. Your dog will listen to plot points and character development ad nausea, as long as you are holding a hot dog.

10)    Friends may come and go; some will disappoint but a dog remains true blue and always happy to share your life.

11)    And last but not least, a shelter dog will always know that you picked him or her out of all the other dogs and will remain truly grateful.

 

Adventures with Max and Louise by Ellyn Oaksmith


This novel was originally published as an e-book in 2011 under the title Knockers.

If you like Sophie Kinsella, Meg Cabot, and Liza Palmer, you'll love Ellyn Oaksmith!

Molly Gallagher does not like to be the center of attention. As the mysterious Diner X, her pseudonym for a restaurant review column, she thrives on blending in. But before you can say "medical malpractice," she wakes up from a routine procedure to find that her chart got switched with someone else's, and now her A cup runneth over.

Suddenly, unassuming Molly is turning heads wherever she goes. The man she's been pining for since high school is sitting up and taking notice, a very handsome stranger has captured her attention, and her lifelong dream of publishing a cookbook is about to come true. But Molly feels like an imposter. Will some advice from a very strange place help her figure out how to navigate her new, full-figured world?

Molly realizes her revamped shape might change her life. She just doesn't anticipate quite how much . . .

Excerpt:
“Here we go,” says the anesthesiologist. Poking the needle into my arm, he withdraws a tiny bit of blood into the clear drug he’s about to shoot into my vein. Red blood blooms in the benzodiazepine. I squeeze Angeli’s hand, grateful to have an ally in the room. She squeezes back hard, too hard. From the bed where I rest, prone in my unisex surgery gown, I can see that Angeli’s brown eyes are scary huge, like melting chocolates. She stares at the needle, transfixed, her lush coffee-colored skin now ashy pale. She clasps my hand until my fingers tingle. I want to say something about my hand being strangled, but the drug is taking effect. My brain floats three feet above, watching Angeli wobble unsteadily. Her skin fades further to a weird hue, lips purplish white. I haven’t seen her this shade since high school, when we drank all my dad’s Crown Royal and threw up on my mom’s prize Tropicana rosebushes. She’s going to faint.

In the back of my drug-addled brain there is a tug of remembrance, a creeping sense of doom. Why did Angeli quit medical school? Because she was tired of her doctor parents pushing their profession, their immigrant drive, their Indian lives down her thoroughly Americanized throat. That was it, right? Then I remember: she quit because she fainted at the sight of blood.

“You’re squeezing my hand too hard,” I squeal.

This isn’t happening. I’m shot full of drugs, going down faster than the Hindenburg, and my best friend, the person who is supposed to drive me, tend me, and take the helm while I am out of commission, is teetering like a drunk. My lips numb Lovely soft fuzz fills my brain. I remember some comedian’s quip about why so many people become drug addicts: because drugs are fun. I give Angeli a squishy smile, trying to form a sentence in my soggy brain, something about how she’d better not faint because I need her to look after me. Then Angeli disappears from view. One minute she’s there, and the next, nothing but wall space and a dull thud.

I turn woozily to the anesthesiologist. He looks down at the floor, a deep frown creasing his brow.

“Nola, we got a fainter!” he yells.

Panicking, I realize that this surgery, which is supposed to rid me of the scars on my neck and chest, boost my confidence, expand my career, and maybe even jump-start my love life, isn’t going well. And I haven’t even left the pre-op room. The last thing that goes through my head is this: I’ve picked the wrong damn friend.

Medical errors occur in 17 percent of all hospital procedures. Most of them are caused by understaffing, fatigue, lack of communication, and staff error. My best friend caused mine. When it came time to pick my advocate during surgery, it came down to five people: my sisters, Trina and Denise; my best friends, Martin and Angeli; and my dad. Trina was out because I was using her plastic surgeon. She’d spend all her time agonizing over whether or not to get a quick shot of Botox instead of looking out for me. My younger sister Denise is too busy chaining herself to whaling ships and picketing outside the federal building. Besides, she’d view plastic surgery as antifeminist, lecturing me on embracing my scars and wearing them like a badge of courage. My dad, well, surgery would remind him of the worst night of his life, the night I got the scars. Martin was busy covering my job at the newspaper.

Angeli, who never mentioned anything about queasiness at the sight of blood, could easily get someone to cover for her at the Clinique counter at Nordstrom. She seemed the obvious choice.

I subscribe to the domino theory of life. One bad choice or event triggers a chain of events that then lead to an explosion in one’s life. In this case, Angeli was the first tilting tile. Nurse Nola, who rushed to pick Angeli off the floor, was holding someone else’s chart. In her haste, she dropped the chart on my bed. Three minutes later I was wheeled into surgery with another patient’s chart. I wake up in the recovery room three hours later feeling as if I’ve fallen off a cliff. It’s not so bad, though, because I’ve landed in a warm pile of drugs. A wan, tired Angeli is at my side, holding my hand, smiling in her surprisingly empathetic way. In a chemical haze, I tilt my head from side to side. The room swims pleasantly as though I’m underwater. Dimly aware of a faint ache in my chest and neck, I float above the pain, enjoying my little high. This isn’t so bad. My surgeon, Dr. Hupta, told me I’d have lots more pain after the drugs wear off. But then he’ll give me more to take home. Easy peasy.

Across from me is a teenage girl with bandages covering her cheeks and nose, sipping from a green juice box. Her mother, in a pink velour jogging suit, flips through a movie magazine. They watch me as I blink my eyes woozily, struggling to sit up. Angeli jumps from her chair to help me.

“Here, here, I got it.” She presses a button, lifting the bed. As my head becomes level with hers, she whispers in my ear, nodding at the teenager. “One guess what she’s in here for.”

Before I can answer, a nurse bustles in, her neon white smile fixed. “Well, hello there. And how are we feeling after our big day in surgery?”

I try to say, “Fine.” It comes out, “Fiiiiaaaay.”

The nurse takes my pulse, listens to my heart rate, and hands me a juice box. “We need to get your blood sugar up, or you’ll end up on the ground like your friend here when you try to walk.”

Angeli rolls her eyes behind the nurse’s back. As soon as she leaves, Angeli whispers about my roommate. “Nose job. High school graduation present. Can you imagine? Happy graduation; how’d you like a new schnoz?”

Slowly I drink my apple juice, my head clearing slightly. “I doubt it went like that. Nice disappearing act back there.”

She rolls her eyes and shrugs. “Now you know why I flunked premed.”

“You said blood used to make you queasy, not parallel.” I wince as the pain radiates into my neck and shoulders.



To stop by her other book tour stops check http://www.tastybooktours.com/Adventures-with-Max-and-Louise.html



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