Minutiae of my every day since 2004.

In the spirit of demystifying and humanizing medicine, doctor-writers Joti and Will tell us how they started writing, how they found their voice, and how writing helps them become better doctors.
A woman hugs her aspin as she scans her phone at the back of a tricycle, the main public transportation in the city. The dog smiles, comforted by human touch, for what else does he need but tenderness? Photo taken at Alunan Avenue - Judge Alba Street intersection in Marbel.
Students have many demands on their time, and they would also like to spend at least some of that time enjoying themselves, so when they look at what they’re supposed to do in any given week, they triage: What has to be done first? That is, what will I pay a price for not doing? Whatever would cost them the most to skip is what they do first, and then they work their way down the line. If you have assigned your students some reading but they pay no price for neglecting that reading, then students will neglect that reading. It’s as simple as that. When I was in college I thought in precisely the same way. I rationally maximized my utility, according to what was utile by my lights.
This is why I give reading quizzes: to move my assignments up in the queue, to force the practitioner of triage to reckon with me. And there’s another reason: We go over each quiz in class — I make them grade their own quizzes — and in the process I discover what they noticed and what they missed. That’s useful information for me, and not just when I’m making up future quizzes: I’m able in our discussion to zero in on those overlooked passages. “Why did I ask about this? Why is this passage important?” I also encourage them to tell me when they think a question is too picky — sometimes I even agree that it is, though whether I do or not it’s helpful to explain why I asked it.
I am using Sean's Sailor fountain pen with a music nib. The ink is Diamine Chrome. The nib transforms my ordinary handwriting into something calligraphic.



Nothing much happens. Hirayama hardly ever speaks. There's not a lot of dialogue. Other than the wonderful American songs in he plays in the car, the sounds you hear in the movie are mostly background noises, like vehicles swooshing, the toilet doors opening, or the leaves rustling.
I can't quite explain why I like Wim Wenders's film so much. Is it because I am in that moment in my life when I live almost the same way—getting through the day but finding quiet moments in between? Is it because the film is set in Japan, which has recently become one of my favorite places to visit in the world? Is it because the film seems free from distraction and celebrates the analog in an increasingly digital milieu? Is it because the ending features Hirayama listening to music and tearing up, like it was catharsis and thanksgiving in equal measure, and I often do the same, with prayer and remembering, because work can feel heavy? Is it because it is quiet and contemplative—and freedom from noise is what we all need at this point?
I suppose all of those reasons are true.
Image credit: IMDB.
Working with her on the last two dozen or so was both a thrill and a lesson in intentionality. Although her stories seemed to move organically, sometimes even to wander, often when I suggested cutting a passage that I thought was extraneous I had to erase my suggestion when the importance of that passage became manifestly clear a few pages later. Invariably, when I felt that something wasn’t entirely working in a story, she would send me a revision before I’d even had time to talk to her about it.
At 2 am, I woke to a text update about a patient. While scrolling, as I often do, I read the news that Alice Munro, one of my favorite writers, has died. I couldn’t go back to sleep. I sort of expected her passing, the way one does with old people. I knew Tita Alice had been frail these past years. She couldn’t even make it to the Nobel ceremony in 2013. But a part of me wished she would surprise the world with yet another collection of stories. No one else writes like her. You see, I had just been reading her, as I always do. No other modern writer speaks to my consciousness the way she does. Her prose is not elaborate. It is simple, deceptively so. There are no big words. But it is so sophisticated and complex and so well put together that I am always left in awe, even in the rereading. I don’t know what I feel—some sadness that I will not read a new story of hers, but mostly gratefulness for an impressive, moving, and extraordinary body of work that has stretched the limits of the short story, still my favorite form of fiction.

Crafted by Bottled Brain, copyright 2004