Posted on June 7, 2014 by betsylerner
I swore I would never do it and last night in a bout of horrible insomnia I did it: I wrapped my arms around Mark Zuckerberg and smoked a cigarette with Sheryl Sandberg or Andy Samburg or James Franco between selfies and here I am the four billionth person to sign up for Facebook. The four billionth hamburger. The other day I compared an elderly woman’s eyebrows to the golden arches and really patted myself on the back for that one. Do you still write poetry? NO. Are you on Twitter? YES. Instagram? YES. Do you have a blog? You’re reading it. Where did you go to high school? Technically? Where did you go to college? What stairwell in which dorm did you write a poem about death? Can I friend my puppy? Can I friend all the men who failed to worship me? Can you love others before you love yourself? Easily. Can you friend the dead?
How much time do you waste on FB instead of writing?
Filed under: Uncategorized | Tagged: Facebook, Friends, self-loathing | 26 Comments »
Posted on April 30, 2014 by betsylerner
Results are in. Winners of the “My Favorite Monster” contest have been selected by Jean Zimmerman. Please send me your snail mail address to firstname.lastname@example.org for your copy of Savage Girl. Thanks to everyone who participated.
There were a lot of freaky characters suggested. I have to go with the ones that scared me, personally, the most. (Dylan, in the liner notes of Bringing It All Back Home: “i know there’re some people terrified of the bomb. but there are other people terrified t be seen carrying a modern screen magazine. experience teaches that silence terrifies people the most”) And fear is always personal in fiction – I first read Lord of the Flies when I was in middle school, it made me quake when I read it in bed, and I still cannot pick the book up.
-Annie Wilkes from Stephen King’s MISERY. Fandom turned on its perverted ear. You want it, you pathetic fame-grubbing scribbler? You got it.
-Chigurgh in Cormac McCarthy’s NO COUNTRY FOR OLD MEN. Pure stochastic soul-sucking nihilism.
-Hannibal Lecter from SILENCE OF THE LAMBS. Not only amorality but his sadistic treatment of Clarice. By the way, how often to great books translate into superb movies?
Of the three, I’d pick Chigurgh as the one I’d like least to spend any time at all, even in shackles and wearing a face restraint. He breathes poison.
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Posted on March 31, 2014 by betsylerner
Dearest Darling Readers of this Blog,
It’s been a while since I’ve received what I refer to as a “pure” fan letter. Most of the words of appreciation that come my way are also attended by requests for representation. It reminds me of the guy who after six months of dating took me to a really nice restaurant and asked me if we got married if he could work for my dad, possibly own the company someday. Check!
So here’s a letter I received today. Enjoy. I know I did.
I just this morning finished The Forest for the Trees and boy did you hit the nail on the head. I have three published books and a small measure of writing success. After the second book I started to have a low grade, almost unconscious sense that … Jesus Murphy, I’m starting to become crazier than a shithouse rat. I’ve led an adventurous life and I was always been so sure of myself. And then I started to bloody write.On a unconscious level I somewhat connected the dots, but it wasn’t until I read The Forest for the Trees that I understood that the lead in the fabric was turning me into the mad hatter.
Have you ever written a fan letter to an author? WHat the fuck did you say?
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Posted on March 28, 2014 by betsylerner
A writer and a douche bag walk into a bar. Hi guys. Is anybody still out there? I miss you. I know a few writers whose mouths are filled with sand. This is the winter when five writers packed a lunch and hiked the foothills of Long Island. This is when a poem got unwritten. You are always in a mitten. This day started. A girl fell to her death from a building she didn’t know was there. I saw a play that seemed true. First you hear the sentence in your head. Then a girl steps up to the bar. You are easily awakened and fitful. A bowl of applesauce sounds awfully nice right now. Will the fiction writers please stand up. Will the choir do the preaching? One chapter a month. One page a day. One sentence in front of another. And then the sky goes dark and the lights come up and two girls in Speedos stand before lockers, talking trash.
How do you get to Carnegie Hall?
Filed under: Uncategorized, Writing | Tagged: bar jokes, fiction, insomnia, poets, writers | 27 Comments »