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.
Dearest readers of this blog.
I apologize for my disappearance (if you missed me). I’ve been doing something really radical. I’ve been…wait for it…writing. Why, you ask? For cherries, for pennies, for a flat ass and gnarled hands? Is there any point in writing. No. Is there any reward? No. Is there any redemption, love, admiration, movie deals? No, no, no, no. Then why do you keep doing it?
A man went to the circus and saw how diligent the man sweeping up the shit was and offered him a job in his clean, air-conditioned office building for twice the money and health benefits. The man refused. The man who offered him the job couldn’t understand why he was wouldn’t come. The man sweeping the shit replied, “What and leave show business?”
Guys, I’m in this ratfuck of a business for 35 years this June. I’ve learned a lot. I’ve lost a lot. I’m grateful and in awe that I didn’t get picked off or go to law school. I still love the smell of the grease paint.
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Betsy Lerner 
Damn, I love the shit you say.
Oops.
I mean, goodness, what excellent writing.
I adapted am unpublished novel into a play. Actors read it. The audience clapped, if halfheartedly. Now I’ve written the book and lyrics for a musical created from recordings of my grandmother 40+ years ago. This time I have a composer, music director, and 4 fantastic singers. It took 6 months to line them all up a month before the one night reading/singing at a popular theatrer. At the same time I’m sending out to agents a novel that took 7 years to write . I’ve been sending it out for 3
or 4 years. I said no more musicals, no more plays. Never, never again. It’s too hard. But…someone besides me will hear my words, I say to myself. I think I’m smitten, bitten by the theater bug! It might just save my sanity. My new mantra.. never say never!
For what it’s worth, I missed you. Made my day to see your post.
The roar of the greasepaint and the smell of the crowd. Ain’t nothin’ like it, lady. Glad you been keepin’ all right.
Thirty-five years of hills, and valleys. Amazing.
It’s good to know you’re writing. I’m waiting (im)patiently to hear what!
Welcome back, Betsy! We DID miss you!
Welcome back!
There’s a world of wonder out there, something new each day.
On Monday I was driving through the St. Lawrence Valley and saw an Amish couple in a horse drawn buggy with a canoe strapped on top. It was heartening to know such hardworking people got out and had some fun, too. Later in my journey I passed a farmhouse and a woman was out working the garden in her front yard, bending over and planting seeds as the wind whipped up her light blue dress, exposing her bloomers and layers of undergarments on a hot, late spring day. A mile or two later I arrived at my destination, the strip of pot dispensaries on the main road of the reservation, not far from the casino.
I don’t know what the story is yet, but, just like me, it’s out there somewhere.
I’m thirty-four years from my first by-line and I’ve made enough money to fill a long hall semi with diesel at tomorrow’s price.
I got one TV interview on Fox News in NYC back when it pretended to be patriotic not psychotic. They sent a limo two and a half hours north to pick me up. Took over four hours to shepherd me back after my big moment. Now you couldn’t pay me enough to watch that f-en station let alone get gussied up in their greenroom.
You have no idea HOW GLAD I WAS to see your post. Please share your poison.