• 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

Long May You Run

Did you download the new Franzen?

The night I saw The Planet of the Apes, something happened that would forever change my life. It was the birth of my youngest sister, Gail. Far more beautiful and talented than I, which is saying something given my abundance of talent and beauty, she arrived a blue-eyed, blond- haired, dimpled-faced darling who would bring much joy into our lives.  But back then, her arrival meant only one thing to me, the relinquishment of my place as the beloved youngest and daddy’s girl. And somehow this tragedy was fused with the movie and its charred landscape peopled by hirsute beings with major league opposables, which would eventually reveal itself to be New York City and our beloved planet earth, though I didn’t understand that then the same way I didn’t get that it was the Nazis who had to go an cock up everything in Sound of Music.

What does this have to do with publishing. This: last week’s discussion of ebooks has really gotten under my skin. Even our beloved August chimed in on behalf of the device. Really, dude? And you think you know a person you know nothing about. Ha. I guess all I’m saying is when it comes time for the opposables to take over, the Kindles and Finger Fucks are going to litter the ground like so many shells. When the landscape is a torch and a bit of subway tile, when shirtless men ride bareback, when Barnes and Noble sells furs and pelts and Whole Foods bison and deer — this will be a time when you’re wanting paper and glue. I know I risk sounding like I live in Ludville, and I know the times are a changin’ but I want to die with you Wendy on the streets tonight  in an everlasting kiss.

Where did I leave my charger? Crap!

Is This the Beginning, Or is This the End?

Just this week, Newsweek reports that Kindle sales exceed Amazon’s hardcover list. A new weekly digital magazine is launching headed up by former magazine journalists and editors. The NYT reports that ebooks have gone from 2.9% of trade book sales to 8.5% over the last year. Predictions are up to 40% within 3-5 years. And, for fuck’s sake, Pete Hamill is publishing his new book only in an e-book edition. Though he did wonder what he’d sign at the book signing. Good question.

Peeps, is the sky falling or are we at the most exciting revolution in the evolution of reading and the dissemination of content?  Would you be happy with just having an e-book? Why does it feel like straight to video to me. I have to admit having schlepped two manuscript bags to Baltimore that I wondered if I should break down and get a Kindle, Nook, or Finger Fuck.

As an agent, I have to take it seriously and make sure that my clients are getting best royalties and are aware of the ebook opportunities. But as a human, I simply have no interest. Books are perfect objects. But hey, I still miss removing a record from its sleeve and settling it down on the turntable, lowering the arm, the hiss, the pop.

Today, a client showed me a first edition signed copy of Finnegan’s Wake. When I saw Joyce’s inimitable signature in pale blue ink, I got goosebumps. What is more beautiful than a bookcase? How better to seduce a woman? What is a house without books?  Oh, and that lovely pocket in the back of a library book, the card stamped with crooked dates, the pages talc with use. Am I a fool? Are the trees no longer weeping? Are there books in trees? Caps for sale? Oh lord, take me up, lift the type from the pages, set them free. Kill me.

Good Morning Baltimore

Writing from the Towson Sheridan after the talks on all things agent: how to find one, query one, fire one.I tried to stay upbeat except for the one moment when I think I said to prepare for a life of misery.

Now, I’m having a Law and Order relapse. Damn, I thought I kicked this thing.Oh, god, gotta go, Detective Benson has to make a hard decision. More soon.

What are you addicted to?

Picture Yourself In a Train In a Station

Going to a writer’s conference tomorrow where I hope to inform and inspire. Who am I kidding? I’m hoping to sell books. Lots of ’em. And try not to devastate or discourage anyone too much, or sound like a yappy insider.

These gatherings are always anxiety producing because you know that most of the people hate you, or the you that is the face of publishing, the wall of rejection that seems too tall to scale. And no matter how many tricks of the trade you divulge or yucks you get, you still feel a little shabby, a little complicit, a lot insincere even though you really mean what you’re saying and are grateful to anyone with your book in their hands which seems like a small miracle.

You know these things are valuable but want to say go home. Write. And don’t come out until you have a book. You want to say, this isn’t for you, this writing business. You want to say self-publish, release an e-book, buy Barnes and Noble (it’s up for sale). You want to say climb a tower with a megaphone, go to the Dead Sea, learn braille, imagine kissing the person sitting next to you. You want to say eat fried rice, drink martinis with your client’s parents and throw up in the Four Seasons. Or say: get insurance, think about your footwear and ordering well and what your manicurist is whispering to her friend as she rubs cheap cream into the palm of your hand. You don’t need me. You don’t need anyone. Writing is not a river from which you can save yourself. Let the current take you. Let the rocks be rocks. The water cold or bath warm. May we all rot. May we not be reminded that even the dead were once schoolchildren, plaid, small, willing.

What would you tell them?

I Don’t Care If I Never Get Back

Thanks to everyone for such warm birthday wishes. I had a great day. Yankees, hot dogs, old friends, lots of cards and calls, and all you wonderful commenters and one lurker. A lurker!

I’m too happy to post tonight. Happiness has never fueled my writing. Personally, I’ve always thrived on misery, depression, anxiety, and rage.

What fuels yours?

The Angels Got Together

August 9, 1483 – Sistine Chapel Opens

August 9, 1854 – Henry David Thoreau publishes Walden

August 9, 1922 – Philip Larkin born

August 9, 1936 – Jesse Owen becomes the 1st American to win 4 gold medals

August 9, 1945 – United Stated drops atomic bomb on Nagasaki

August 9, 1960 – Elizabeth Susan Lerner born

August 9, 1969 – Charles Manson and “family” murder Sharon Tate and four others

August 9, 1974 – Richard Nixon becomes first American President to resign from office

August 9, 1995 – Jerry Garcia dies

Hear Me Roar

Dear Betsy:

You went all diatribal on the subject of women’s fiction the other day. What’s up with that? Women’s fiction is just fiction with female main characters. Since men won’t read books about women, unless they’re bimbos, Bond girls, or butt kickers, what else are you going to call books that talk about the lives of the statistical majority of the population?

You called it “Kotex fiction.” So do you hate your own gender?

I’ll go sit in the back now and put on my shit shield. Reading your blog is kinda like going to see Gallagher’s evil twin.

–Name withheld

I always wanted to be someone’s evil twin (Shana? Vivian?), but who is Gallagher?

This is a very serious subject and I do not want to treat it glibly. I’m a feminist. And I love my vag. But I hate the term “women’s fiction” and I hate its evil twin “chick lit.” When my publisher put a pink jacket on my paperback, I wanted to fuckin’ forget the whole thing. It’s not just work with female main characters. There are a million other implications for a book that is called women’s fiction, but the most important one is that it isn’t taken seriously. Toni Morrison doesn’t write women’s fiction. Nor does Lorrie Moore. Or Marilyn Robinson. I know that it’s marketing. I know that it’s publishing. I understand. It’s the air that I breathe. All I’m saying is that I don’t like it. I don’t like query letters that pitch women’s fiction. Or chick lit. I think it’s demeaning. Just say fiction, or literary fiction, or crime fiction in the tradition of Patricia Cornwell, Sue Grafton, and Janet Evanovich. I’ll pick up on the cues.

I love SheWrites. I love Jezebel. I love A Page of One’s own. I love Smith College. And girls’ night out. And Frances McDormand. I love all organizations that help women. But I want to read fiction, and go hear rock and roll, and see art. Not women’s fiction, women’s rock and roll, and women’s art. I have an allergic reaction and I don’t think it’s because I hate myself (and while I do hate myself it’s not for being a slit). I think it’s because I want the nomenclature to reflect parity. You never go to a all male rock show. Male impressionists. Men’s fiction.

I’m sure I haven’t thought deeply enough on all this. And I’m sorry if I went off half cocked (get it?!) the other day. I really want to know what you all think about this “women’s fiction” label. Does it help? Hurt? Matter?

(And if this letter is from the person I offended — I do apologize. I was raised better, though you couldn’t tell from this blog. I’m sorry and thanks for the great question.)


I Knew I Was a Genius

I trashed last night’s post. All wrong. The response to Erin’s post was tremendous and I want to thank everyone who contributed. I have to admit that part of what fueled my desire to write a memoir was a feeling of competition. Any number of books on depression made me crazy because I didn’t feel they captured depression in a “true” way. I hated Darkness Visible. I wanted to stab myself in the heart after reading Girl, Interruped. Noonday Demon won like the National Book Award. Gah! There was one book about depression and therapy I loved, Mockingbird Years, but it was “quiet” and didn’t get much attention. It didn’t tart up depression. It got how deadening it is, how fucked up therapy can be. I felt I had done hard time, six months in the looney bin, a lifetime of seeking treatment, a parade of insane shrinks until I found Dr. Mas who saved my life with the right diagnosis and medication.

I was also tired of the anorexics getting all the attention. I knew my issues with food were less sexy (and I know anorexia is a nightmare), but I also believed that more people suffered from bingeing, yo-yo dieting, and the attendant self-disgust. And that it was probably worse for women for whom self regard and body image go hand in hand. I had tried to write about these things as fiction over the years with many false starts. Then, around my fortieth birthday on a train back from a cheese-filled trip to the south of France, I wrote the following words in my diary: Starting tomorrow. It was the clarion call of my life, it was when I would start living. After that, the thing nearly wrote itself. To use the cliche, I had found my voice. A lot of people have asked me if it was difficult to write. It wasn’t.

What compels you to tell your story whether as memoir or as fiction? What fuels you?

Coming Out of the Dark

[Dear Readers: My colleague Erin Hosier has been knocking out some amazing pieces over on She Writes. I’m including her latest in full here because I think it’s the best piece on memoir that I’ve seen a very long time.]

THE GREAT COMPETITION FOR THE SADDEST STORY EVER TOLD (SOLD) by Erin Hosier

Dear Erin Hosier,

My name is REDACTED and my memoir is titled Life’s Not Fair. I grew up with a father who idolized Hitler and turned out to be a pedophile. As a child I blocked out memories that he molested me. When I was a teenager the police raided our home because he had child porn on his computer. My mother has paranoid schizophrenia and our father refused to let us see each other for about a decade. At school I was tormented by bullies and at home I lived in poverty and filth. My sister and I ran away from home and spent time in juvenile detention as teenagers. My little brother committed suicide by shooting himself in the heart because he became delusional and thought it would save our father’s life. My little sister died of alcohol poisoning after choking on her own vomit. My siblings were both in their twenties when they died. I have also personally struggled with an addiction to marijuana and alcohol.

I married a man who began using meth, started hallucinating and became physically abusive towards me while I was pregnant. We have two small children together. At that point in my life I spent a lot of my time going to clubs and bars, getting drunk and cheating on my husband with random men. I was under so much stress I had a nervous breakdown and went to a mental hospital for the third time in my life. Our two children were taken by CPS and placed in foster care. Currently I am homeless and trying to get them back from the state. I have had other readers and writer read my story and I was told I have a very unique voice and story. I believe that one day this book will be on the New York Times Best Seller List and that anyone who sends me a rejection letter will one day regret it because this is the kind of story that I can see being made into a movie and making a great deal of money.

There is not another book out there like this one, but I can relate to stories like Glass Castle and Angela’s Ashes.
I really hope you will consider representing me. Would you be willing to review a few sample chapters?

Sincerely,

REDACTED

Are you still reading? My editor thought I should cut this letter down because it’s so depressingly raw, that you’d get the gist after the first paragraph and probably get turned off, but I wanted to keep it as is since that is precisely the point of this post.

Because I’ve sold a few memoirs, or maybe just because I’m an agent, I get letters like this every day. You’d think this was an extreme example, but unfortunately it’s not. Last week another query promised its author’s story would be “realer than Precious.” Something about the writer’s tone irritated me (it’s not a contest!) and I deleted the emailed letter unread and finished my bagel. Who was she to say that her experiences were “realer” than anyone else’s, even as she was referencing a fictional character? And then there are the true stories like the one above. A person so victimized by life itself that she probably can’t consider the humor in a title such as “Life’s Not Fair.” But Erin, Mistress of Darkness, why should every book have a silver lining? Why does everything difficult need to be tempered with humor or self-deprecation if we’re talking about pedophilia, suicide, poverty and mental illness? The answer is it doesn’t…unless you want your story to actually be published.

And another thing: I don’t think there’s a person reading this who hasn’t come face to face with at least three of the myriad of horrors the writer mentions above in her query. Life isn’t fair, and thanks to Oprah we all know it. And while I’m sorry we live in a world as cruel and unfair as we do – of course I am, every day – I can not even begin to imagine how I would pitch such a story to editors. It’s not that your life sounds like such a total bummer, it’s that it only manages to get worse. Where is the lesson? Where is the story? Where is the hope? And what is the point?

Publishers are looking for stories that can inspire. That’s just human nature and the American way. We don’t mind if you were forced to bear your father’s child in poverty, just as long as you eventually star in your own tv show, or at least work with other tortured children to try and make things better. But above all, you need to be a better writer than any of the other People With a Horrifying Life Story. And you need to remember what books are for.

Here’s how this query letter can be fixed: If you’re writing your own story, please know the difference between autobiography and memoir. In general, only really famous people like presidents and rappers can get away with telling us the whole story of their lives. That’s an autobiography. But for the most part, memoir is about one aspect of one’s life. That’s how Mary Karr or Augusten Burroughs or Koren Zailckas can get away with writing more than one memoir – they’ve built an audience on voice and trust and for better or worse their sales tracks enable them to do it again, usually focused on another time or set of life circumstances. But that’s what’s key: voice and trust. If readers didn’t respond to the over-the-top coming-of-age story of Augusten being raised by his crazy mother’s crazy shrink in Running With Scissors, they wouldn’t have clamored for his addiction memoir, Dry. And he wouldn’t have had the opportunity to publish it.

A memoir is a personal story, but it’s written for a reader. It’s great if the author experiences some kind of catharsis out of the process of writing her book, but there’s all kinds of writing that can aid in catharsis, and therefore publishing should not be the ultimate point. Personal writing – the kind that heals – need not be made into a movie. A memoir is for the reader, the person who can relate but could never quite put their story into words. It’s for the reader who always wanted to know what “that” would be like. It’s for someone else’s enlightenment but more often their entertainment. Memoirs these days are often centered around an “issue.” That’s not an accident. Large groups of literate people share issues.The key word in that sentence is “share” – it’s not all about the writer, it’s about the community of readers willing to buy a book.

In the best memoir pitches, the author clearly has enough distance from her story to be able to tell it with clarity and humor. The writing doesn’t have to be funny, it just has to understand the necessary balance between lightness and darkness. Unlike in this letter, there has to be a reprieve from the pain every so often. You have to be aware that the reader is not your therapist, even as they are a witness, and that in every tragedy or dark time, there’s hope or goodness or art at the end of the process. A good writer can write about anything – I really believe that. They just can’t write about everything at once.

Solid As a Rock

After being away, I was excited to see what the postman had for me in my Ask Betsy Account. What do I get: bullshit. First, let it be known here and now and for all time: I do not need Cialis. I can still get it up, thank you very much. And I can keep it up. And I know what to do with it. So basta with the Viagra ads. NEXT, stop pitching bad projects and paragraphs full of bad plots for women’s (kotex) fiction. I don’t read it. I don’t like it. If you want to do this, send it to my LITERARY AGENCY WHERE I WORK at: mail@dclagency.com and an intern will reject it and I will never have to lose my boner.

Here are some choice tidbits from my mail box:

“Your photograph displayed on Agent Friday took me by complete surprise. I honestly had no idea you were so attractive. I had you pictured quite the opposite. And no, I’m not hitting on you. I live over a thousand miles away and I’ll be damned if I’m going to saddle up and ride that far in this heat.”

“…the first novel that’s earned the right to leave my desk drawer. I’d like to think it deserves your representation.”

“I think I have what it takes to write a book. I don’t think I have what it takes to land an agent. Does that make sense? Or am I just being a big baby? (you can tell me). Do I need to man up? I think I’ve run out of agents to query, anyway. Does this need to be an amazing book? Does it need a real publisher? ”

“Suppose I want to write fiction under a pseudonym in order to free myself of certain cognitive blocks during the writing process…”

“Whatever your intention for writing your book, I’ve molded it into a love story between the two of us. (Of course, not in the sicko you better get a P.I. to have me checked-out way.) You seem to bleed love for books … a physical reaction we share. And, I am committing to this affair with everything I’ve got. My fantasy novel (ignoring the fact that I’m using the word novel to describe its current state of ten-thousand words) has recently been dusted off and new plots and sub-plots are taking form as well as new pages are being written. This is in a very large part due to your sexy chapters. I’ve been tantalized and titillated, and feel guilty in that I’ve always felt better when the woman finishes first.”

Dearest readers of this blog. I’m now going to take a shower. Perhaps when I get out, someone will have a question.