Tonight I went to hear some music that is part of an annual series called “Arts & Ideas.” It’s festival that brings in a palette of international performers, musicians, artists, etc. It’s really quite impressive and I feel like a petulant child to say that it makes my skin crawl. I’m not sure if it’s the arts or the ideas, or the way it’s all served up on a bed of bright lettuce, or maybe it’s just the word “festival” that makes me want to wear velvet slippers with tiny jingle bells. I hated the concert tonight so much that I leaned over and whispered to my husband that I wanted to go He mouthed back, “what?” I leaned in to say it again when the man in back of us tapped my shoulder and said, “would you stop talking.” THere is some dispute as to whether he said “stop talking” or “PLEASE stop talking.” Whatever. I wanted to die and then I wanted to kill him. I spent the balance of the performance fantasizing about how I was going to turn around and say: why don’t you shut the fuck up. Or, what the fuck is it to you? Or, you really wanna fuck with me mother fucker. But instead I just slumped down and tried to drown out the concert, and stop thinking about how badly I wanted fro-yo.
How do you handle people who talk in theaters, or are you one?
Filed under: Uncategorized | 36 Comments »
Just in from a late night of boozin’ and brawlin’ at a launch party for 
I’m in a good mood. I admit it. Sorry, August. But since I’ve been back, there’s been a lot of good news. So much so, that a) I’m sure I’ll be hit by a car and b) leads me to believe that going away for ten days might be the ticket instead of sitting at my desk and gnawing at my limbs and digits. The truth is I’ve learned over the years how to compartmentalize the agony associated with waiting to hear if an offer will be tendered, if a book gets reviewed in the NYT, if there will be a movie deal, if there will be a Turkish deal, if the jacket will be beautiful, if the title will be perfect, if the writer produces a book better than he or she thought possible, and beyond what anyone expected. I first learned how to wait as a teenager waiting for guys to call. Here’s what I could accomplish while waiting: organize my drawers, whiten my teeth, decoupage a box I bought at a tag sale, tweeze my eyebrows beyond recognition, re-read Me, Natalie, and eat a pound of pasta. As an agent, I handle the waiting by getting busy with administrative duties and sometimes slipping into a movie.
You know how when you don’t bring an umbrella, it rains? I didn’t bring a notebook on this trip, didn’t bring a sad copy of my screenplay, didn’t even have a pen in my pocketbook. In my previous so-called life, this would have been anathema; more: treason. I always traveled with at least one little notebook, usually a loose leaf the size of a deck of cards and in it I scrawled ideas, line for poems and always words whose meaning escaped me and that I would dutifully look up when I arrived home. Not this time. It was a wing and a prayer and a call for rain.
I am aware that I use this blog primarily as a place to work out my problems and give voice to the exquisite agony of writing and publishing. And that I indulge a particular kind of melancholy that infuses much of my day and relationship to writing and to art. But over the years I’ve had some peak days that I would be remiss in not mentioning. When I got my first promotion, when I received the Tony Godwin prize for editors under 30. (Yes, I was once under thirty.) When my author and friend Kim Wozencraft got a million dollar film deal for her first novel and we went to the Brasserie and ate steak and drank martinis. (Later at the office, I puked and fell asleep under my desk.) When two books I had edited (Prozac Nation and Autobiography of a Face) were well reviewed on the same page of the New York Times Book Review and both of their careers took off (both books still in print). Working with Temple Grandin. Selling my own book and buying a Cartier Tank watch. And yesterday at the BEA.
I spoke to graduate students at Columbia today. The usual. How to find an agent, how to put a proposal together, how to turn your dissertation into a trade book. How to write a query letter. To attach or not to attach pages. Make multiple submissions or not. All the important talmudic questions in the great book of publishing life. Walking through the campus, I gave a nod to the staircase that leads to Dodge Hall, home of the writing divisions. I still remember my first day of school, intimidated beyond belief, attempting to look cool and like I knew where I was going, when I tripped and was splayed out on those steps. Before I could even tell if I was hurt, I popped back up and hoped no one had been looking. The fall caught up with me later, or it foreshadowed greater collapse to come. But I always remember that fall, the symbolic freight it imported on a young woman thrilled out of her mind to be attending an MFA program, to starting her life after a disastrous undergraduate careerl
Everyone keeps asking me what I think of Girls, Lena Dunham’s new television show for, by, and about twenty-something women and women who remember what their twenties were like. They assume I will REALLY like it. First, I fucking hate it when people makes assumptions about what I will and will not like. (I hated Welcome Back Kotter, ET and Joni Mitchell.) Then, I feel suspicious; why are they assuming I will like it so much? In this case, obviously Lena Dunham’s size twelve body is to blame, then her “quirkiness,” her dysphoria. I had an allergic reaction to the show at first. But I kept watching, mostly out of jealousy. Lena Dunham is, like, 25 (I’m not going to pedia her, you can look it up if you care). And now ,five or so episodes in, I’m really liking it. It asks you to like it on its own terms, unlike most half hour comedies that will go down on you they’re so desperate for approval. Not Dunham, she takes off her clothes and drops her drawers, but you don’ t really know what makes her tick or what she’ll say next. I think that’s what I like about it: it’s not completely predictable. She’s a really good writer, too, god damn her. And a really good director. How! How! These kids today, they’re so fucking talented. My college age intern admitted that he watched it, called it a guilty pleasure, and then asked that he not have to talk about it. Say no more.
Betsy Lerner 