Is writing genetic? There are certainly writing dynasties and by that I mean Kingsley and Martin Amis, Dorothy and William Wordsworth, The Brontes, the Cheevers, Cheech and Chong. My mother wanted to write. Does that count? My sister is a writer. I think the Safran Foers have seven or eight writers in their family. On the nature/nurture spectrum I gotta say these thighs are from my dad.
Were you born to write?
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My insomnia continues. And my anxiety about home invasion is at an all time high. Other than that, I feel great. Look, I know that statistics are in favor of never having anyone enter your home more dangerous than a girl scout, but that doesn’t stop the panic attacks, and by that I mean a powerful desire for a cheese sandwich right around now. Only I’m too afraid to go downstairs in THE DARK. Maybe this home invasion thing is a METAPHOR for something. Fear of clients? Fear of a 1,000 page manuscript about Nova Scotia. Fear of Nova Scotia. Fear of marketing meetings. Fear of Alberto Vitale. Fear of calendars, magazines, and the environment. Fear of light bulbs, petitions and Thin Mints.
What’s your nightmare?
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I swore I would never do it and last night in a bout of horrible insomnia I did it: I wrapped my arms around Mark Zuckerberg and smoked a cigarette with Sheryl Sandberg or Andy Samburg or James Franco between selfies and here I am the four billionth person to sign up for Facebook. The four billionth hamburger. The other day I compared an elderly woman’s eyebrows to the golden arches and really patted myself on the back for that one. Do you still write poetry? NO. Are you on Twitter? YES. Instagram? YES. Do you have a blog? You’re reading it. Where did you go to high school? Technically? Where did you go to college? What stairwell in which dorm did you write a poem about death? Can I friend my puppy? Can I friend all the men who failed to worship me? Can you love others before you love yourself? Easily. Can you friend the dead?
How much time do you waste on FB instead of writing?
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GIVE IT UP FOR ONE OF OUR OWN!
Took this off the web, not entirely sure it’s SHana.
PEN Emerging Voices Fellow Shanna Mahin’s OH! YOU PRETTY THINGS, a roman a clef about a young woman in L.A. whose efforts to escape the manic orbit of her former child-star mother land her in the employ of one of the hottest starlets in Hollywood, to Dutton, in a significant deal.
You know, every once in a great while I actually feel completely happy for someone else. When I read in Publisher’s Marketplace that Shanna sold her novel I felt like this was the best motherfucking news I had heard in a long time. How many drafts, revisions, xanax? How many therapy sessions, break ups, tantrums, reams of paper, forests felled? How much blood? How many tears? And what about lift off? Days when you get out of your way, where there is a direct line from your brain to the words. When it all finally starts to happen on the page. ANd someone says, yes, we would like to publish your book. Our little girls is growing up. ! Give it up for Shana! Congrats girl! Don’t forget the little people!
Filed under: Authors, Books, Fame! Celebrity! Riches!, neurosis, Uncategorized, Writers, You Go Girl | Tagged: First book, PEN, Publishing, Shana Mahin, xanax | 50 Comments »
Betsy Lerner 