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.photo: bags of love
I’m almost two weeks into my hiatus and I can’t seem to stop doing my agenting work. Some stuff is unavoidable, but some of this is on me. I can’t step away from the car. I need to be needed. I’m love to sink deep into my work and I love a good distraction. I’ve wondered my whole life why I didn’t pursue writing, why I put others work before my own, living on second hand smoke, nose pressed up to the bakery glass. Part of the answer is I love editing the way some people love crossword puzzles. I love being part of creating books, thinking of titles and jackets and how to promote them. I also needed a job. Health insurance. I needed to stop worrying about me. I loved the publishing community, my peeps. I can’t believe I’ve lasted this long. Writing is also a bitch.
What’s your work/writing ratio?
Filed under: Uncategorized |
Betsy Lerner 
“What’s your work/writing ratio?”
Precisely incalculable, due to unpredictable daily variations, but generally speaking, it is much:meager.
90 — 10, work the top dog. I’ve never been able to think of writing as work and it certainly hasn’t paid the bills over the years.
Knut Hamsun had it right in “Hunger” — if you don’t write something good enough to make money from, you don’t eat. I haven’t been able to walk down Mr. Hamsun’s lonely road.
I don’t have the chops to be a professional writer. I have to work my seven-to-four gig at the office. There are times when I tell myself that to put in the hours of honest work, to do a good job and try to help others, is honorable, no matter the profession. Other times I see my life as a wasteland of missed opportunities, a directionless meandering from one year to the next without having found my way home. The older I get the more difficult it becomes to arrive at an opinion of myself. Am I dreamy or practical? Hardworking or indolent? Should I be ashamed of my low expectations or is this the best it could have been?
I see that I haven’t answered your question. I suppose I work for money, and at the margins for what small measure of self-respect I will ever glean from writing. The ratio is equal. The sum is greater than zero.
The older I get the more difficult it becomes to arrive at an opinion of myself.
Why? Why? I can’t seem to hold an opinion of myself for more than five minutes.
Shanna used to say that she walked around asking everyone, as in the children’s book, “Are you my mother? Are you my mother?” I look at myself and ask, “Are you a mother? Are you a writer? A poet? A friend? Office drone, stoner, owlish bookworm in a thrift-store dress?” Forget opinions, I can’t even choose a label!
I’m good at distractions. No great feat of discovery that watching telly isn’t work- although it is educational. Reading endless news feeds isn’t either. Or blogs, like yours, oops.
They’re pretty simultaneous. From 4a-7a, I write-write. From 8a-5p, I write and edit for a global engineering firm. Each applies to the other. Clarity, concision, and le mot juste.
As the deadline looms I am a maniac. Other than that I don’t even write a grocery list.
All writing. I didn’t heed the warning to keep my day job. Now it’s too late to go back.