• Forest for the Trees
  • 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

You’re Gonna Make Me Lonesome When You Go

I’ve been helping a writer with the ending of her book for a few weeks. I see so clearly the forest while she is hugging the trees. I’ve tried gentle persuasion, I’ve tried a firmer hand, I’ve tried to see it from her point of view. I’ve given structural and line edits. I’ve talked character motivation and reader expectation.  I’ve tried to make one point: in the beginning is the end. I mean at least in this case. This is not a po-mo novel, this is not an experiment only using the letter “e.” Okay, how do I know I’m right? Experience. An exquisite sense of pacing, moment, language, and integration. Because I am a student of poetry and I believe the cup seeks the ball whether it wobbles and falls, or lands with a satisfying clink. I know from endings and I know from blue balls. I know how to twist in hot sheets with a symphony of a thousand locusts sawing outside.

Maybe she doesn’t want to let it go; after all, then it will be over, gone, who will leave little effigies in the trees? Do people really fear success? You think: this may be your last move. It is nothing if not inevitable in a completely surprising way. Oh, you little bitch. Maybe you should shut up. Maybe you should shut up. Maybe this bit doesn’t take the horse. Maybe I should go fuck myself.

How does it feel to end a book?

Now come and join the living, it’s not so far from you

My daughter has three outfits spread out on her bed. This can only mean one thing: we’re officially excited and anxious about going back to school tomorrow. Dear Reader, I could lay out three thousand outfits tonight and I don’t think I’d be able to cure what ails me. Of course, everything is fine. Better than fine. I have some exquisite projects to sell this month, The Hose and I finished a really solid first draft of our pilot, a stalled novelist just sent me pages that rocked, the revision for Forest for the Trees is coming out in a month, and I actually found a couple of hours today to get in the hammock with the Franzen and look at the sky.

Do you ever have the feeling when you look at a person that you see them at age seven or nine? You see the child in the adult? Or as you’re walking the dog and looking at the houses, you feel your heart could break for all the shrubbery? What of your own tray for salt, pepper, olive oil, and vinegar? What of your own kitchen window with its two clay birds, one from Italy, one your daughter made and painted orange? Do you ever think about the exact way in which people put food in their mouths and chew? I can’t believe we dress ourselves. I can’t believe we have cars! I can’t believe people still make things.  My gray dress with the peter pan collar. I have one picture of my father holding me. I have forty notebooks. I have a pharmacy in my head. I want to wake up with a hard on. I want to wake up in a city that doesn’t sleep. I want to wear something spectacular.

What about you? How are you feeling?

Is This the Beginning, Or is This the End?

Just this week, Newsweek reports that Kindle sales exceed Amazon’s hardcover list. A new weekly digital magazine is launching headed up by former magazine journalists and editors. The NYT reports that ebooks have gone from 2.9% of trade book sales to 8.5% over the last year. Predictions are up to 40% within 3-5 years. And, for fuck’s sake, Pete Hamill is publishing his new book only in an e-book edition. Though he did wonder what he’d sign at the book signing. Good question.

Peeps, is the sky falling or are we at the most exciting revolution in the evolution of reading and the dissemination of content?  Would you be happy with just having an e-book? Why does it feel like straight to video to me. I have to admit having schlepped two manuscript bags to Baltimore that I wondered if I should break down and get a Kindle, Nook, or Finger Fuck.

As an agent, I have to take it seriously and make sure that my clients are getting best royalties and are aware of the ebook opportunities. But as a human, I simply have no interest. Books are perfect objects. But hey, I still miss removing a record from its sleeve and settling it down on the turntable, lowering the arm, the hiss, the pop.

Today, a client showed me a first edition signed copy of Finnegan’s Wake. When I saw Joyce’s inimitable signature in pale blue ink, I got goosebumps. What is more beautiful than a bookcase? How better to seduce a woman? What is a house without books?  Oh, and that lovely pocket in the back of a library book, the card stamped with crooked dates, the pages talc with use. Am I a fool? Are the trees no longer weeping? Are there books in trees? Caps for sale? Oh lord, take me up, lift the type from the pages, set them free. Kill me.

Picture Yourself In a Train In a Station

Going to a writer’s conference tomorrow where I hope to inform and inspire. Who am I kidding? I’m hoping to sell books. Lots of ’em. And try not to devastate or discourage anyone too much, or sound like a yappy insider.

These gatherings are always anxiety producing because you know that most of the people hate you, or the you that is the face of publishing, the wall of rejection that seems too tall to scale. And no matter how many tricks of the trade you divulge or yucks you get, you still feel a little shabby, a little complicit, a lot insincere even though you really mean what you’re saying and are grateful to anyone with your book in their hands which seems like a small miracle.

You know these things are valuable but want to say go home. Write. And don’t come out until you have a book. You want to say, this isn’t for you, this writing business. You want to say self-publish, release an e-book, buy Barnes and Noble (it’s up for sale). You want to say climb a tower with a megaphone, go to the Dead Sea, learn braille, imagine kissing the person sitting next to you. You want to say eat fried rice, drink martinis with your client’s parents and throw up in the Four Seasons. Or say: get insurance, think about your footwear and ordering well and what your manicurist is whispering to her friend as she rubs cheap cream into the palm of your hand. You don’t need me. You don’t need anyone. Writing is not a river from which you can save yourself. Let the current take you. Let the rocks be rocks. The water cold or bath warm. May we all rot. May we not be reminded that even the dead were once schoolchildren, plaid, small, willing.

What would you tell them?

Coming Out of the Dark

[Dear Readers: My colleague Erin Hosier has been knocking out some amazing pieces over on She Writes. I’m including her latest in full here because I think it’s the best piece on memoir that I’ve seen a very long time.]

THE GREAT COMPETITION FOR THE SADDEST STORY EVER TOLD (SOLD) by Erin Hosier

Dear Erin Hosier,

My name is REDACTED and my memoir is titled Life’s Not Fair. I grew up with a father who idolized Hitler and turned out to be a pedophile. As a child I blocked out memories that he molested me. When I was a teenager the police raided our home because he had child porn on his computer. My mother has paranoid schizophrenia and our father refused to let us see each other for about a decade. At school I was tormented by bullies and at home I lived in poverty and filth. My sister and I ran away from home and spent time in juvenile detention as teenagers. My little brother committed suicide by shooting himself in the heart because he became delusional and thought it would save our father’s life. My little sister died of alcohol poisoning after choking on her own vomit. My siblings were both in their twenties when they died. I have also personally struggled with an addiction to marijuana and alcohol.

I married a man who began using meth, started hallucinating and became physically abusive towards me while I was pregnant. We have two small children together. At that point in my life I spent a lot of my time going to clubs and bars, getting drunk and cheating on my husband with random men. I was under so much stress I had a nervous breakdown and went to a mental hospital for the third time in my life. Our two children were taken by CPS and placed in foster care. Currently I am homeless and trying to get them back from the state. I have had other readers and writer read my story and I was told I have a very unique voice and story. I believe that one day this book will be on the New York Times Best Seller List and that anyone who sends me a rejection letter will one day regret it because this is the kind of story that I can see being made into a movie and making a great deal of money.

There is not another book out there like this one, but I can relate to stories like Glass Castle and Angela’s Ashes.
I really hope you will consider representing me. Would you be willing to review a few sample chapters?

Sincerely,

REDACTED

Are you still reading? My editor thought I should cut this letter down because it’s so depressingly raw, that you’d get the gist after the first paragraph and probably get turned off, but I wanted to keep it as is since that is precisely the point of this post.

Because I’ve sold a few memoirs, or maybe just because I’m an agent, I get letters like this every day. You’d think this was an extreme example, but unfortunately it’s not. Last week another query promised its author’s story would be “realer than Precious.” Something about the writer’s tone irritated me (it’s not a contest!) and I deleted the emailed letter unread and finished my bagel. Who was she to say that her experiences were “realer” than anyone else’s, even as she was referencing a fictional character? And then there are the true stories like the one above. A person so victimized by life itself that she probably can’t consider the humor in a title such as “Life’s Not Fair.” But Erin, Mistress of Darkness, why should every book have a silver lining? Why does everything difficult need to be tempered with humor or self-deprecation if we’re talking about pedophilia, suicide, poverty and mental illness? The answer is it doesn’t…unless you want your story to actually be published.

And another thing: I don’t think there’s a person reading this who hasn’t come face to face with at least three of the myriad of horrors the writer mentions above in her query. Life isn’t fair, and thanks to Oprah we all know it. And while I’m sorry we live in a world as cruel and unfair as we do – of course I am, every day – I can not even begin to imagine how I would pitch such a story to editors. It’s not that your life sounds like such a total bummer, it’s that it only manages to get worse. Where is the lesson? Where is the story? Where is the hope? And what is the point?

Publishers are looking for stories that can inspire. That’s just human nature and the American way. We don’t mind if you were forced to bear your father’s child in poverty, just as long as you eventually star in your own tv show, or at least work with other tortured children to try and make things better. But above all, you need to be a better writer than any of the other People With a Horrifying Life Story. And you need to remember what books are for.

Here’s how this query letter can be fixed: If you’re writing your own story, please know the difference between autobiography and memoir. In general, only really famous people like presidents and rappers can get away with telling us the whole story of their lives. That’s an autobiography. But for the most part, memoir is about one aspect of one’s life. That’s how Mary Karr or Augusten Burroughs or Koren Zailckas can get away with writing more than one memoir – they’ve built an audience on voice and trust and for better or worse their sales tracks enable them to do it again, usually focused on another time or set of life circumstances. But that’s what’s key: voice and trust. If readers didn’t respond to the over-the-top coming-of-age story of Augusten being raised by his crazy mother’s crazy shrink in Running With Scissors, they wouldn’t have clamored for his addiction memoir, Dry. And he wouldn’t have had the opportunity to publish it.

A memoir is a personal story, but it’s written for a reader. It’s great if the author experiences some kind of catharsis out of the process of writing her book, but there’s all kinds of writing that can aid in catharsis, and therefore publishing should not be the ultimate point. Personal writing – the kind that heals – need not be made into a movie. A memoir is for the reader, the person who can relate but could never quite put their story into words. It’s for the reader who always wanted to know what “that” would be like. It’s for someone else’s enlightenment but more often their entertainment. Memoirs these days are often centered around an “issue.” That’s not an accident. Large groups of literate people share issues.The key word in that sentence is “share” – it’s not all about the writer, it’s about the community of readers willing to buy a book.

In the best memoir pitches, the author clearly has enough distance from her story to be able to tell it with clarity and humor. The writing doesn’t have to be funny, it just has to understand the necessary balance between lightness and darkness. Unlike in this letter, there has to be a reprieve from the pain every so often. You have to be aware that the reader is not your therapist, even as they are a witness, and that in every tragedy or dark time, there’s hope or goodness or art at the end of the process. A good writer can write about anything – I really believe that. They just can’t write about everything at once.

Solid As a Rock

After being away, I was excited to see what the postman had for me in my Ask Betsy Account. What do I get: bullshit. First, let it be known here and now and for all time: I do not need Cialis. I can still get it up, thank you very much. And I can keep it up. And I know what to do with it. So basta with the Viagra ads. NEXT, stop pitching bad projects and paragraphs full of bad plots for women’s (kotex) fiction. I don’t read it. I don’t like it. If you want to do this, send it to my LITERARY AGENCY WHERE I WORK at: mail@dclagency.com and an intern will reject it and I will never have to lose my boner.

Here are some choice tidbits from my mail box:

“Your photograph displayed on Agent Friday took me by complete surprise. I honestly had no idea you were so attractive. I had you pictured quite the opposite. And no, I’m not hitting on you. I live over a thousand miles away and I’ll be damned if I’m going to saddle up and ride that far in this heat.”

“…the first novel that’s earned the right to leave my desk drawer. I’d like to think it deserves your representation.”

“I think I have what it takes to write a book. I don’t think I have what it takes to land an agent. Does that make sense? Or am I just being a big baby? (you can tell me). Do I need to man up? I think I’ve run out of agents to query, anyway. Does this need to be an amazing book? Does it need a real publisher? ”

“Suppose I want to write fiction under a pseudonym in order to free myself of certain cognitive blocks during the writing process…”

“Whatever your intention for writing your book, I’ve molded it into a love story between the two of us. (Of course, not in the sicko you better get a P.I. to have me checked-out way.) You seem to bleed love for books … a physical reaction we share. And, I am committing to this affair with everything I’ve got. My fantasy novel (ignoring the fact that I’m using the word novel to describe its current state of ten-thousand words) has recently been dusted off and new plots and sub-plots are taking form as well as new pages are being written. This is in a very large part due to your sexy chapters. I’ve been tantalized and titillated, and feel guilty in that I’ve always felt better when the woman finishes first.”

Dearest readers of this blog. I’m now going to take a shower. Perhaps when I get out, someone will have a question.

If I Knew The Way, I Would Take You Home

Ten Things I Don’t Need in 103 Degree Heat:

1. Trying to buy my NY Post after a long, hard day of superagenting, everyone pushing ahead of me, but instead of grabbing the top paper they have to pull the paper second from the top. Seriously? The second paper is hygienically superior? Untainted? Take the top fucking paper and move on.

2. Escalator etiquette: right hand side is for people who stand. Left hand side is for people who walk. So please move your skinny ass and the Samsonite suitcase with the “identifying” blue ribbon and move the fuck over. I am a commuter and the perfectly calibrated route from office to train can not be trifled with.

3. Two editors sounded exasperated with me today. Me? Really?The queen of collaboration? The middle child still trying to make everyone happy. The former editor of sixteen years who actually respects the process. Annoyed with me? Awesome!

4. Ninth reminder bill from HarperCollins arrives for books that were supposed to be comped. It’s a shame the hairs on the back on my neck are not rockettes.

5. A former client emails with asking a favor. Delete.

6. I don’t need one more person asking me about Kindles and IPads and what they mean to publishing. What they mean is that some people are going to read on screens, but most people still won’t read at all.

7. I do not need a mediocre cup of ice coffee for $3.54 and you know who you are. I’m sorry, I love you, cute little place two doors down from our office, but the iced coffee is crap and the price is insane. Plus, as my partner rightly points out, they give you a look if you don’t leave the change in the tip cup.

8. I don’t need to check my blog stats as frequently as I weigh myself in order to determine self-worth.

Four bucks and it's half ice! Do I sound cheap?

9. I do not need to turn fifty next month, but since I am my goal is to do it as fucking graciously and demurely as possible from that day forward (Aug. 9 if you need time to shop). Until then, I remain my usual raging cunthead self.

10) And I don’t need any commenters to chide me for bad language or my self-loathing. In the first place, self loathing is more than an address, it’s where I live. In the second, this blog is my persona. I’m really loving and giving, self-loving and giving, gentle and kind, just a big old hug of a gal.

What do you not need?

If I Had A Hammer

I’ve been in therapy on and off (mostly on) for thirty-five years. None of these charlatans ever seemed to be able to remember the names of the people I spoke about. Most of the time I didn’t care. Who could expect them to remember every clown who made me feel bad?

Now, I’m finally seeing this woman who I think is extremely gifted and has helped me where none have even ventured. And, are you ready for this, she remembers the name of every one I’ve brought up, even if it was a year ago and only once. Reason tells me I should be pleased, impressed, possibly moved.

Here’s what I don’t get: it annoys me. How the hell can she remember every name? Is she taking notes? Does she actually review them. I am dumbfounded by her ability and find it as inexplicable as the magician cutting a woman in half and turning her into a dove. I tell her this, that I think she’s a show off, that I’m not impressed; on the contrary, I find it off-putting, irritating.

I will give a nickel to anyone with a reasonable explanation as to why I can’t stand her for remembering every person I bring up. Or perhaps you have a story of your own insanity. Always welcome here.

When I Found Out Yesterday

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?

Didn’t I Give You Nearly Everything That a Woman Possibly Can?

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?

The lady who doesn’t move wears pale salmon huarache style loafers. I notice them because I am still on the floor picking up pages. It’s times like these when you think about an iPad. Only knowing me, the iPad would probably slip off my lap and break. And as a result some other dumb ass agent will read the proposal first and procure a seven figure advance while I’m still playing with myself. Or maybe, everything will come to nothing, except my book bag which will be on display at the Smithsonian as a relic of when people used to read books.

And this permanent knot in my shoulder from carrying my book bag, it too will be under glass at the museum. And the twitch in my right eye that moves like filigree, that’s a popular exhibit. In fact, all of my twitches are on display. And that is a case of my cuticles. And my middle finger, behind glass, spot lit. And the small of my back. And my back. And my throat.

Is this a post or a cry for help?