Today, a new media person came to our office and told us about her company and what it can do for authors. It’s a very interesting model and if you have the right kind of book/platform, it looks like you can really make some bank. I’m intrigued, but it also makes me feel very Rip Van Winkly.
Later in the day, a rejection letter came in that was so kind and smart that I nearly wept. No publishing jargon about cups of tea or falling between stools. Just a straight up smart read from an editor who is old school and by that I mean she reads her own manuscripts and writes her own letters and has strong opinions which she expresses politely.
Then I wrote a very good letter to a very famous author asking for a very big favor. Getting blurbs is the equivalent of big game hunting for sedentary publishing types like myself with big beautiful asses. Please god of the blurbs, rain on me.
Then I helped my partner choose editors for a submission he is making. This is like culling a list together for a dinner party. Then I got an email from a prospective client who says another agent is interested in her. I hadn’t even received the material. Am I being played? I don’t care — it sounds great. I’ll take a peek on the train tonight. The thing about reading under these circumstances is that you naturally feel competitive and read it differently as a result. Note to self: cool jets. It was a perfect query letter, the project comes with a killer title; has this little darling been reading my blog??
And the day didn’t end there, chit chat in the elevator with a publisher, lunch with a southern author and her marvelous drawl and bright blue eyes, doing the memo on two contracts (boring), gossiping about Bill Clegg (not boring), etc. etc.
Tell me about your writing day if you like. What did you get done? Any good gossip?
Filed under: Agent, The End of the World as We Know It | 21 Comments »
Do you ever regret anything you’ve written, wish you hadn’t published it, or even just shared it with another person? Now that my daughter is a teen, I sometimes gulp hard to think of what she will think of me if she reads my memoir. I was quite cavalier when I wrote it. My motto: secrets did the most damage. It was the stuff under the carpet that kills. Now, the carpet’s looking mighty fine.
I’ve been trying to write about something that happened two weeks ago. I was in therapy and I did something I’ve never done before: I told my shrink what my screenplay was “about.” Actually, I told her the plot, more specifically about the two main characters and how I couldn’t write what I had planned about them. Just as I said it, I knew for the first time what the story was really about, who these characters were. I had led myself right back into the central drama of our family (once again) even as I believed I was writing about entirely different creatures.
Exhausted. Fell asleep on the train. All my manuscripts slipped off my lap and on to the floor. The woman next to me didn’t flinch or shift her legs as I frantically gathered my pages (today’s haul: four new chapters by a client, 50 pages of a project my business partner wants a second opinion on, four prospective proposals, and two contracts). The bitch who won’t move is immersed in a library copy of Debbie Macomber’s novel, A Good Yarn. (The head line on Debbie’s website is, “Wherever you are, Debbie takes you home.”) Debbie, can you take me home?
Dear Betsy
Came to NYC to go to BEA parties: Google, Bookforum, Tin House. Wore my one frock, high heels (and if you know me this is absurd), and a touch of make-up. It was 92 degrees a full moon refused to focus above the Chrysler Building. I had my game face on when something happened, not a panic attack exactly, just a flush of anxiety tinged with desperation and petulance. Did I really want to go? Who would I see? Should show my face. Why? And so it goes, a revolving door of doubt, immaturity, ennui. Am I part of this world? Am I a part of any world? The funny thing is, I always have a really good time at parties. I suspect that when your expectation is dread, nothing can be so terrible.
Betsy Lerner 