As of tomorrow, I’m doing it: I’m unplugging. No blog, no email, no vibrator. I’m taking off until Labor Day. I’m giving myself two writing weeks to revise my screenplay and turn it into the perfect vehicle for Marisa Tomei and Andrew Garfield. I will miss our nightly lovemaking, but I hope everyone hunkers down with their writing as well. Or, does something really fun like go to the beach or roast corn or see the new Planet of the Apes movie. 
If anyone’s up for it, let’s see if we can write something here like the car game where you start with a sentence and everyone adds one sentence at a time, and you see how long you can keep it going. So, the first line, which I’m lifting from Joan Didion’s The White Album, is:
We tell ourselves stories in order to live.
P.S. I miss you already and I’ll see you Sept. 5.
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This is a post about something very difficult to come to grips with that no one likes to talk about — it’s about hitting the wall. And by that I mean when you are stuck, whether you’re crashing into the wall or the wall is crashing into you. I’m not talking about a bad day or even a few months of writer’s block. I’m not talking about a string of rejections or seeing your book on the remainder table where no one wants it, even for $5.99. What I’m talking about is something deeper and more terrifying. It’s when you realize you’ve been writing the same book over and over. Or when you can no longer stand writing in the register you’ve been writing in and don’t know how to get out. This isn’t a slump, a bad patch, a bush-league case of writer’s block or stage fright. This isn’t about not being able to come up with a new idea. This is bad. It’s when you understand the limits of your imagination, intellect, creativity, skill, or drive. It’s when you no longer know when you’re faking it; when you’ve succeeded at fooling yourself. I’ve seen it in writers over the years. You can’t say anything. It would be cruel, like waking a sleepwalker. You know the writer is in agony even if he can’t admit it to himself, even if he’s on the couch five days a week, it’s almost impossible to admit.
I’ve always been turned off by people who say they can’t write certain things until their parents die. Does that mean they go around hoping for mom and dad to choke on a pecan at Thanksgiving? I don’t think you can hijack your writing for the sake of people’s feelings. And who are you really protecting? And I’m not just talking about confessional or autobiographical writing. All writing has something at stake, or should, in my humble. You don’t have to engage in character assassination, or pen a Mommy Dearest, but you have to take me there. I want a manuscript to take me somewhere I’ve never been, or somewhere I’ve been a million times and show me something new. I don’t like polite writing, polite conversation, or conversation about weather. I want a writer to be fearless because I’m a pussy.
Hi Betsy,
I think I was in the third grade when my best friend Lisa Zimmerman and I snuck a fat paperback by Harold Robbins from her mom’s room. I had no idea what was going on, but the title was oh so appealing, The Betsy. I think I was in the fifth grade when The Godfather was secretly circulated around my class, with a page number that referenced a hot sex scene between Sonny and a bridesmaid. I was in twelfth grade when I read a book because of the title, A Spy in the House of Love, and decided that I wanted lovers instead of boyfriends. Then Marguerite Duras’ The Lover. Then, the motherlode, Henry Miller. Tropic of fuck me dead.
Word of mouth is the single most powerful selling tool known to man. Studies have shown people trust a personal recommendation over institutional reviews, celebrity testimonials, advertisements, or a guy wearing sandwich boards hanging around the CVS. Now, of course we have e-word of mouth through Face and Twit. Is it the same as your friend raving about The Goon Squad or Jeff Eugenides new novel, or Daniel Craig in chaps in Cowboys and Aliens? How did book groups proliferate? One minute everyone is reading alone in a chair, the next they’re sitting around with a bunch of women drinking Chardonnay in Polartec vests reading Cutting for Stone. How? Word of mouth. Operator. Pollination. Water Cooler. What’s on your Ipod? What are you reading? What have you read? What do you recommend? This is not my beautiful wife.
I was in a mall today with a Borders. Liquidations signs everywhere. 30% off of everything. The shelves were picked over with the exception of twenty or so copies of the Bush autobiography and a ton of Hello Kitty shit. It was all so depressing, and I was never a big fan of Borders. The thing is it looked like more than the death of a store or the second largest bookstore chain. It looked like the end of our industry as we know it. I hated everyone in there pawing over books and bargain shopping. I heard one young guy, hoisting a Tom Clancy, complain about the cost, even with the discount. “This is what is wrong with books,” he said, “I don’t have thirty bucks.” I’ve tried in these posts never to go negative unless it was about myself. I’m not a sky is falling type, and I truly believe that books are superior to any electronic readers, and when the dust settles books will still be there. But right now, it’s difficult, it not near impossible, to feel that books are anything but an endangered species.
Betsy Lerner 