I think I’m done with the five part series on fame. It’s all such a mind fuck anyway. There’s no winning the fame game because everything fades. Because someone else will be anointed, crowned, bequeathed, and beheaded. Of the many lies I hear writers say is that they would just be happy to have their book published. That’s like not being asked to dance after you’ve put on your party dress and stood eagerly all night on the sidelines. It’s like being the last girl at the bar, 3 a.m. with your legs shaved. You are the tree in the forest no one heard fall. The nail in your own casket.

How are we to understand this desire to write and the desire to be read. Are they the same or different? Is writing enough in itself. Would you quit if someone told you that you will never be published?

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FAME – A Five Part Series

Part Four

The all time best moment of my life was at a Christmas party last year. This scene actually happened IN FRONT OF MY DAUGHTER. I am introduced by the host to a young woman:

Host: This is Betsy, she’s written a book.

Young Woman: That’s cool. Is it anything I would have heard of?

Betsy: It’s a writing book.

Young Woman: Wait, are you Betsy Lerner?

Betsy: Yeah.

Young Woman: Oh my god, you wrote The Forest for the Trees. That’s a classic.

The only other moment that came close was when my dentist’s receptionist read my book, really liked it and now gives me preferential scheduling.

And fan letters. I think the fan letter may be the purest form of author appreciation. I receive two kinds  of fan letters. The first is where the person loves my book and wants me to sell theirs. As far as I’m concerned these don’t count. It’s like expecting a blow job just because you gave one. The other is where the person just loves the book and has no agenda. I get very few of these.

Please “share” a moment of fame or appreciation for doing that thing you do.

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FAME – A Five Part Series

Part III

When Food and Loathing was published, something exciting happened. I was invited to go on The Today Show. How the publicist scored this, I will never know. In short order, I was told that I needed a) a new look and b) media coaching. The shopping trips resulted as they always have since fifth grade: in tears. The media coaching was worse. A petite, perky woman with frosted hair,  a fat belt slung around her hips, and bright lipstick tried very hard to get me to sit up straight, look into the camera, and break me of the habit of going silent after a questions was asked, which apparently made me look brain dead. DNR!

I was summoned to the publisher’s office. He had seen the tapes. He said watching me was like playing violin at Auschwitz. I saw myself pulling the bow over the strings. I saw myself standing in Schindler’s line. As a child I had nursed many Anne Frank fantasies — this was not a reach. Look, he said you’ve got to get  a hold of this thing. He said I needed a universal response, a line I could use in any interview that would give me the upper hand, steer the conversation to make my points. He then brainstormed with me, helped me boil my book down into one beautiful sound bite.

Inside the NBC studios, the wardrobe lady ran a lint brush over my body, tsked, and sent me on my way. A make up lady coated me in pancake, and a hair stylist did what she could. I saw Matt Lauer in the hall. Tall! I was seated across from Al Roker, newly thin from his belly band. Four, three, two one: Al holds up the book and calls it the “feel bad” book of the year. High praise, indeed! Then he asked me what I was trying to say, and I pulled out my line. Well,  I said, all women have a secret eating life. That was it, the line the publisher gave me. And three minutes later it was over. Amazon figures dropped into the 100’s for a brief shining moment then skyrocketed back into the ether.

The way I figure it, I have 12 minutes left. What did you or would you do with your fifteen minutes of fame? Besides an Oprah bj.

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This begins a five part series on fame. I met with a publisher who talked about a writer we both knew at the beginning of his meteoric career. Now, twenty years later, this writer is still a big deal. The friendship had its ups and downs over the years, but the two were solid now. I asked if the quality of the friendship was still as good. No, not really, the publisher answered, he’s changed. How, I asked, though of course I new the answer as soon as I asked it. Fame.

We talked about that for a while. Some people seem to feel that fame confirms what they felt all along about themselves. For others, it brings on imposter complexes, insecurities, paranoia, etc. I wonder if it’s possible to remain unchanged by fame. What is it and why is is so desirable, cash and babes aside.

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You know I’ve been whoring all over god’s creation trying to sell my book. I was recently asked what exactly I’ve been doing to raise my profile. I’ve been writing articles for writerly magazines and websites. I sent out an e-card to everyone I’ve ever met, to writing programs and conferences. I’ve said yes to every gig I’ve been invited to including the local Psoriasis Society, but they flaked out. What won’t I do to spread the gospel according to me and my fat ass? I’m about to do an actual book mailing to MFA types in the tri-state area, have crafted a letter that only be described as smeg. I’ve even created an “author page” on Amazon. Oh, and I tweet. That’s a shitload of fun. I don’t do Facebook because of my stalker tendencies and my desire to keep friends at a minimum.

How important is self-promotion, I’m often asked.  Well, it’s very important.  But you want to make sure you do it right, which means that by the end of it you are completely unrecognizable to yourself, that you’ve made of yourself an asshole so blazing the angels sing. And at night, when you take off your bra and lay your weary head on your pillow, and look at the ceiling, a tear slips out of your eye as you remember the fledgling writer who couldn’t afford a copy and you gave her one, insisting she have it as gift. Or the man who brought a tattered first edition and said the book saved his life, only when you opened it, every line had been underlined and the margins were filled with swastikas.  Being a whore, none of this really makes an impression on you. You’d do a horse in Times Square if you thought it would move your Amazon rank.

What would you do for your book?

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