• Forest for the Trees
  • THE FOREST FOR THE TREES is about writing, publishing and what makes writers tick. This blog is dedicated to the self loathing that afflicts most writers. A community of like-minded malcontents gather here. I post less frequently now, but hopefully with as much vitriol. Please join in! Gluttons for punishment can scroll through the archives.

    If I’ve learned one thing about writers, it’s this: we really are all alone. Thanks for reading. Love, Betsy

Now in Paperback

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Baa

In this week’s Sunday NYT magazine (not a particularly obscure reference, I realize), I was taken by something the poet Frederick Seidel said when asked to what he attributed the seventeen year silence between his first and second book. “Cowardice,” he said. 

When asked what he was afraid of, “The expression of aspects of the self that you understand or, rather, that you fancy may not be attractively expressed or attractive once expressed.” I take this to mean fear of looking bad. I guess that would be a fear when you write lines like, “A naked woman my age is just a total nightmare.” LOL. As if a naked man his age with a crepe nutsack and tits is a picnic. But that’s not my point.

What first attracted me to poetry was not what it revealed, so much as what it concealed. I  couldn’t understand half the poems I read, but I read them over and over. They held secrets, sometimes answers. I knew when something sounded true, even if I couldn’t articulate why. And I think I wrote poetry when I was young because I could hide there, in images and ellipses.

This all came to a grinding halt when a professor asked if I were intentionally trying to obfuscate meaning in my poems. Intentionally, well no. I then wrote some frank poems with titles like “Calories and Other Counts” and “Venus Envy.” And then, shortly after getting my MFA, I quit writing poems. Cowardice?

People sometimes ask me if I still write poems. No, no, no I quickly reply, as if I gave up sleeping with farm animals long ago. Nah, not me, haven’t touched a sheep in ages.

I would love to know what people think keeps them from writing (besides e-mail).

FAQ – Should I Get an MFA

Two young people (did I actually say “young people”?) asked my opinion recently about whether or not to get an MFA. This is a tough one. It really depends on two things: where you are in your writing life and if you can afford it. You do have to ask yourself the tough questions: would I rather have an MFA from Columbia or a Jaguar XF?

There are great programs out there, and taking two years to devote to writing and reading can be a formative time. Unless you are a stone cold idiot, you will come out a better writer than when you went in. Or, like me, find out that you’re a good editor, or teacher. Really fun is the community of writers with their orgiastic jealousies. Be prepared, know yourself, try not to cave to the style of the day.

Then there’s the faculty. I would definitely check that out before you write a check. I had the great good fortune of studying with Richard Howard, Denis Johnson (fuck me dead) Bill Matthews, Pamela White Hadas (my brilliant mentor), with Dan Halpern, Tom Lux, and for visiting writers we had Margaret Atwood, Harold Brodkey, Coleslaw Milosz (as we fondley referred to him), and others. That was all worth it. That was fantastic. As was finding my bff and best reader, the poet Jean Monhan.

Whoa, sorry for that little side trip down memory lane. I think getting an MFA can be very valuable, but you want to be in the right place for you and you don’t want to go bankrupt. Being a writer will take care of that soon enough. If you go, focus on your craft, read your eyes out, listen most to your critics, and try not to have a crack-up.

Would love to hear what other MFA survivors have to say, as well as those who avoided it altogether.

Beauty Contest

I’m taking a famous writer to lunch today. I was a huge fan of her work in college. I’m actually sort of a wreck. I mean I know I’ll be fine because I’ve been doing this for, um, twenty-five years. And so far it’s worked out. Still, it’s  actually kind of nice to know that there’s a butterfly or two inside me.

After a pretty quiet spell, it looks as if  there are some very interesting new clients on the horizon. I’m not sure if they’ll all come with me. Writers make the rounds of agents these days, and I encourage them to. It’s like getting a second opinion from a doctor or lawyer. You’re trusting this person with your career. It should be an informed decision. When a writer (stupidly) goes with another agent, I’m always really zen about it. Bitter, but zen.

SPRING

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Poop and Boobs

Heather B. Armstrong’s memoir jumped on to the NYT bestseller list its first week on sale. Man, am I happy. Even our dog noticed what a good mood I was in and roped me into something like 4,000 throws of the aqua blue sheep toy. Heather’s on the road doing readings, huge crowds, due in large part to the enormous popularity of her blog, Dooce.com which is about marriage and motherhood, or poop and boobs. I understand some women at the readings have asked to have their pregnant stomachs autographed (reminds me of my high school neighbor who got her fifteen year old butt signed by Bob Weir), many are bearing gifts, taking pictures with Heather. It’s really amazing how you can develop a loyal readership through blogging. Ahem. Anyway, her book is called, IT SUCKED AND THEN I CRIED. It’s hilarious and then you cry. Highly recommended.