Two dog hand puppets?
Many people who read my memoir said it was “brave.” Every time I heard that word, I immediately translated it to “crazy.” Isn’t that what they really meant, that it was crazy to expose so much of my life? I used to cavalierly say that the only thing people knew about me after reading the memoir was whether I could write. But I’d feel embarrassed and exposed and not brave. Not too long ago, my shrink wondered why the people in my family felt a need to make their stories public. Because we’re whores? Because we didn’t get enough attention? Because attention was, at our dinner table, love. Because love was food. And food was a weapon. And writing is a weapon. And sex should not be a weapon but sometimes it feels too good to resist. And if writing is shit on a stick, how can you not wave it around?
I am lost today. I have no idea why I write or what I want to say. I am angry and distressed and cannot locate the grid. I gave my shrink my books and she never said another word about them? Do you think she’s read them? I’m painting her as a jerk, but she’s actually the best person I’ve ever worked with. Her name is Betsy! Talk about transference. Talk about a room where you can say anything. Where what you say and what you need say are like the distance between you and the page. What does it take to get there: courage or skill, need or craft, desire or discipline? Brave or crazy?
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I realized today that I have become something I hate: a dilettante. A dabbler. A jack-off of all trades. I have a screenplay blocked out that I can’t seem to kick into second. I have a tv writing partner and we are on a highway to hell. I have Neeps, or The Marriage of Parsnip and Potato in a notebook, I have an abandoned memoir, The Potter’s Apprentice. I have…bupkus.
I have always believed that if you want to get something done you have to put blinders on. You have to work at that one thing and that one thing alone. Your focus needs to take on the qualities of a heat-seeking missile. What the fuck has happened to me? Besides this blog? Ha ha ha.
I have been trying to figure out who wrote the first book dedication for some time. It does seem to be a contemporary practice. I prefer books that don’t have dedications. It’s like a big fuck you that I can really get behind. It’s like: I’m an artist, this is my book, it isn’t for anyone, no one helped me or inspired me; it isn’t apologetic, grateful, beholden or indebted. It just is.
Betsy:
Ten years ago this month, I turned in my blue pencil and became an agent. I never thought I could be closer to writers than in my capacity as an editor, but I have found that the agent relationship can be even closer. You are there at the inception of a career, or you are stepping in mid-stream and trying to rebuild a career. You spend your time as an interpreter, negotiator, editor, shrink, friend, mother, principal, ping-pong partner and bank. You witness the passing of parents and the birth of babies. You know when the writing flows and when it falters. You know your writers’ strengths and limitations, when they’ve had a breakthrough and when they’ve hit a wall. You track a mood swing from self-aggrandizement to self-flagellation and back again many times over the course of one conversation. At a reading, you feel as if you are watching your child’s first recital. You wildy applaud as he picks up his first literary prize. You are celebrating a great review. You are going to a memorial service, an emergency room, a motel in Texas. Just when you think your tank is empty, a pile of pages arrives that takes your breath away.
Snowy DC 
A client accused me of being a tease today. It was warranted. I dropped a hint about some positive feedback for his project during my trip to LA. I think I might have said that they were creaming for it in my usual tasteful and delicate way. The last thing this writer needs, as he is polishing his manuscript for submission to publishers, is for me to dangle diamond studded carrots before his eyes.
Betsy Lerner 