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.When I was a young editor, I signed up lots of writers, many without agents. If I saw a great one woman show, I’d sign the actress. If I read a cool article in an off beat magazine, I’d track down the writer. My best friend at the time loved hearing every detail of every deal and he called me Star Maker. I’d always feign humility, but I loved his attention. Loved the idea of finding a writer under a mushroom or beside a stream and help elevate their work. We’d eat dinner at the bar at the Brasserie at 11:00 at night drinking dirty martinis. We’d walk through the east village, Bob Dylan and Joan Baez. Sid and Nancy. Holly and Paul. We were beautiful nobodies.
Who were you?
Filed under: Uncategorized |
Betsy Lerner 
“Who were you?”
Keith Richards, stoned immaculate, making the moves, dealing the licks, playing and strutting my stuff.
A traveler, idealistic and sensitive; a fawn who managed to cross the busy six lane highway, battered, bruised, but still breathing and happy to be in the forest across from the city.
An underfed poet in an oversized men’s suit coat
I was living in Jo’burg South Africa, working on my first novel and in love with a gay guy who said we could make it work. It didn’t work. I went home and he moved to Rhodesia with another gay guy. And the book was about…wish I could remember.
Always felt like somebody in NYC, where I fled after a suburban childhood and a small liberal-arts college. My roommate would become a revered fiction writer. I would spend half a career (after the layoff from your dream job, nothing left) in book publishing, eke out one published memoir, leave the city, leave the country, and wonder how it all might have gone differently.
Rock on, Star Maker!