THE FOREST FOR THE TREES is about writing, publishing and what makes writers tick. This blog is dedicated to the self loathing that afflicts most writers. A community of like-minded malcontents gather here. I post less frequently now, but hopefully with as much vitriol. Please join in! Gluttons for punishment can scroll through the archives.
If I’ve learned one thing about writers, it’s this: we really are all alone. Thanks for reading. Love, Betsy
I recently got together with an old friend. He asked me if I started with the song lyric or the text. I had no idea he was reading the blog and felt weirdly exposed. The thing next that happened was the waitress brought a small plate with three pieces of whole wheat toast. We had both ordered whole wheat toast and it wasn’t immediately clear if it was mine or his or communal whole wheat bread. That goes down as one of the most awkward moments of my fucking life. I actually asked the waitress point blank whose toast it was. Like right in the eyes. I manned up. Normally, I would just sit there and assume the toast was for the other person and sit in the dark. No toast for Betty. Not this time. It turns out the toast was communal. Sidebar: I’ve never seen toast served that way since I visited Amish Country as a surly middle-schooler and was “forced” to eat family style with “strangers.”
I’m watching the final episodes of the Sopranos. I don’t know what’s going to happen, but I can sense it. The tension is building. Almost unbearable. How do you build tension in a piece? A stray cat? A mother pushing a stroller with a kid in a pink snowsuit, a double breasted robin? Do you ask questions? Do you withhold information, give too much? Is it pacing? Tone? Do you drop clues? Deepen your characters? Makes things more complex? Or clearer. Collude with the reader or keep her at arm’s length. Cliffhangers? Clues? A stray cat, a mother pushing a stroller with a kind in a pink snowsuit, a double breasted robin?
I’ve been working with Patti Smith for 25 years. I was 36 when we met. I was five months pregnant with my daughter. She was my hero and I was petrified. I would never be cool enough. Her lawyer told me to choose a restaurant and I was nearly paralyzed with the choice. What if she hated it? I chose a place called Nirvana with a nod to Curt Cobain. It was 15 floors up with sweeping views of Central Park. I recall that no one else was there, though that can’t be possible. I can’t recall what we ate. I was astonished at how friendly she was, how interested she was in my pregnancy. She wanted to know the due date – February 12. Abraham Lincoln’s birthday, she told me. First Just Kids, then a poetry book Auguries of Innocence, then M Train, Year of the Monkey and now this gorgeous book, A Book of Days. Happy publication, Patti.
Betsy Lerner 