January | 2017 | Betsy Lerner

YOu’re the First, the Last, My Everything

Posted on January 13, 2017 by betsylerner

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The whole thing about being an agent is discovering a writer or project that excites you so much all you want to do is tell people about it. It’s like New Year’s eve in When Harry Met Sally when Billy Crystal realizes he loves Meg Ryan that he runs through the streets of New York to find Meg Ryan at a party to say “I came here tonight because when you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible.”If my heart doesn’t quicken, if I can’t envision how I would pitch, I generally step aside. It may not be the most scientific method, but it’s reliable. I sometimes feel like the fully dressed guy on the beach with the metal detector.

What was the last book you were massively excited about?

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ENdless Rain Into a Papercup

Posted on January 12, 2017 by betsylerner

I’m jacked up on Benadryl tonight. What about you? sad_pinkie_pie__c_by_mlpwallpapermaker-d4qdzxj

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Someone Left the Cake Out in the Rain

Posted on January 7, 2017 by betsylerner

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Spent the day writing, she said feeling saintly, superior, and suddenly sad. It’s truly a drug this writing business. Editing is a contact high. It’s when the words and sentences are your own, when you find a simile that makes sense on three dimensions. I know this blog is generally a clusterfuck of complaining because for every victory there are 10,000 failures. If I think I wrote well today, I’ll see the delusion tomorrow, and yet and yet. We need the eggs. This year I want to wear glitter and sit up straight. I want to wear it or throw it out.

Can you describe your best writing day?

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Dream If You Can a Courtyard

Posted on January 5, 2017 by betsylerner

Today, a little better. Work is the only tonic/balm/antidote to negativity. And I did good work today with a writer on the cusp of finishing a book. Loose threads were sewn up, extraneous details dropped, transitions sharpened, part titles materialized out of thick air. People, we have to write. We have to fight. We have to fuck all. When you call a sentence into being it is as real as a moth hanging on a stalk in a forgotten forest.

Why do you write? November Moth (Epirrita dilutata)