When I set out to learn about my mother's bridge club, the Jewish octogenarians behind the matching outfits and accessories, I never expected to fall in love with them. This is the story of the ladies, their game, their gen, and the ragged path that led me back to my mother.
Thanks for all those suggestions you erudite motherfuckers. I’m going to need a little time to go through the comments again and pick a book (and a winner). I’m exhausted. Cutting deals. Crafting editorial letters. Reviewing royalty statements. Judging jackets. Dinner with rock stars. Slipping into a coma on Metronorth. Is Jimmy Fallon cute or is he the kid in the third row who always kept looking back at the kids in the last row and encouraging them with weak laughter? I’ve been an agent for twelve years. If this were the program I’d get some badass coin andf tell my tale at a meeting where the folding chairs scuff the linoleum and the basket we use for collecting donations is made out of synthetic wicker.
What are you hiding?
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Betsy Lerner 
Even though no one believes this actually happens, I am hiding the fact that a trilogy fiction series downloaded whole into my brain on a Saturday morning a couple weeks ago. Whole. Characters. Titles. Scenes. Dialogue. Plot. I’ve only to transcribe it.
This, while slogging away at another book I’ve been working on and trying to finish, which I think is related: my mind hard at work on the chain gang of one thing while my subconscious runs off to frolic in the fields to create this series.
I’m going all in, straight up H.A.M. (see: Kanye and Jay for reference). The first book in the trilogy will be finished in about two weeks. It will not be denied–I barely even have time or head space to lurk or post here. Weird, huh? Hence the hunkering down and hiding.
Hope you all are well! I do miss you, but am having too much fun to pine.
I believe it happens and I think it’s awesome! Best of luck.
I’m hiding
oops. I’m hiding a new trust that everything can work to our betterment if we let it, whether it’s sad, tragic or “bad.” And it can be used as fodder for writing.
I’m hiding my new Scrivener for Dummies handbook. I’ve got two novels started in Scrivener, but the only thing I know how to do is input text to chapter files. I need to know how to store research and photographs, not to mention rearrange the index cards on the cork board. If I don’t understand it soon I’m not paying for another year’s license. “User friendly,” my ass.
Shhh…
If I tell you what I’m hiding it’s no longer hidden.
Jimmy Fallon is way cute. His duet with Carly Rae Jepson is a favorite around these parts.
This is some great writing, Betsy. It’s begging to be spoken out loud. I started reading the book I recommended but I couldn’t get past the first page. I’m like that. Doesn’t mean it’s not a good book, only that I’m an impatient child at times.
Me? Hiding so much, it’s crazy. A therapist would love me.
I like Jimmy – there’s just something about him, and his delivery is usually impeccable – well, except that one awkward moment with Adam Levine. Ouch.
Hiding? Hm, well, nothing that would send me to jail…but the longer the little secrets stay hidden, the less important they seem. Weird how it works like that sometimes.
My secrets fuel me.
Yes – that’s true too, now that I think about it…hmmmm, depends on the secret…the one’s related to writing would be the ones that fuel me – I bet it’s the same for you.
I am an asian woman in my twenties.
When certain politicians are on TV, I give them the finger.
I prefer cajun food, which is unusual for asian women.
Hahahaha…and all this time I thought you were Lithuanian jack-hammer salesman.
At first I didn’t believe that you were an Asian woman in her twenties, but then, your comment seems kind of haiku-ish, so I figured you were telling the truth. Then I thought, maybe what Frank wants is an Asian woman in her twenties who likes Cajun food. amiright?
Well, almost. The truth involves more than one.
Jimmy Fallon is an adorably talented fanboy, though he is instantly upstaged every time Elmo appears on his show.
I’m hiding me, of course. I only have the one and I don’t want the paint job dinged.
Funny you should ask….
if i told you, i wouldn’t be hiding it, now would i?
Tet, come clean. You’re really a Rockette with bunions and really bad breath from blowing the stage manager.
I can’t believe I just outed you that way. My kids would be mortified.
you’re the one who should be mortified
I am.
“When you first starting working here, I was afraid of you. You’re big and scruffy looking; I thought you were one of those pot smokers or something, but you’re nice.”
“I do smoke pot.”
“Really? What’s it like? Do you sit around in a circle with other people?”
“Sometimes. It’s easier to pass a joint around if you’re in a circle. Sometimes I just smoke by myself. I don’t know what it’s like for other people, but I like the buzz. I don’t smoke too much, shit’s … the stuff is way stronger than it used to be. And I don’t think it’s healthy to have too much smoke in my lungs. It’s hard to describe. I mean, how would you describe chocolate to someone without saying chocolate?”
“It’s illegal, though.”
“Yeah, but so’s getting a blow j … well, other things I like are illegal also.”
“What would happen if people found out you smoked?”
“I’d probably lose my job.”
“Aren’t you afraid?”
“Always.”
-Conversation with a co-worker at a children’s psychiatric hospital in Indiana, circa 1977, shortly after receiving a congratulatory letter from the governor for my role in helping get everyone out safely after a few kids set a fire as a diversion during an escape attempt. I wasn’t the only one working at the time and my attempt to use a fire extinguiher coated another worker and me in grey powder — one kid said, “Look at Mr.D; he looks like Moses!”–but still, even stoners can reason that fire = bad, safety, good.
Some things never change and what’s hidden the deepest is the plainest to see if you’re willing to accept it.
habits that could land me in a folding chair…
Wait, what?
I apply myself to abandon. There’s not a let-loose bone in my body.
Still I sit in my folding chair thinking it ain’t fair same as the ones who had the fun.
I’m hiding my lust for August.
That! was funny…
A zit on my ass. The rediculous number of times I come during sex. An incredible recipe for vegan mac & cheese. The desire to completely fall apart. A shamefull streak of laziness. Stories of an abusive mother. An itch on the bottom of my foot I’ve had since childhood. A wish to be held every night before I fall asleep. The fact that I’m a chicken shit writer and I’ve never submitted anything for publication. A ruthless and utter sense of failure. The hope to meet Betsy in the flesh one of these days.
Well, basically that I’m a layabout, ambitious, and shy. The trifecta of disaster.
That I’m still working on “To Thine Own Self Be True.” Almost 65. I’m late. I’m late. I’m late.
At this very moment it’s four snack-size Hershey bars, a snack-size Milkway caramel dreams or something like that and a snack-size Butterfinger. I’m hiding them from me until I get in my car then they’ll become part of me.