Uncategorized | Betsy Lerner

I Have Visions of Many Things

Posted on November 7, 2011 by betsylerner

Do you ever feel like you’re fucking insane with this writing shit? Or totally alone. Or happily alone. Or jerking off more than a teenage boy? Or bff’s with the dental technician because you can’t stop grinding your teeth. Or spending a writing weekend organizing your ribbon box. Or imagining yourself in a three way with the dry cleaner and his pretty wife. How many notebooks have you lost? Filled. Did you drink the Dead Sea? Did you explode a balloon of red blood? Hammer your foot to the floor. Did you cry out in aisle six because you could not find Product 19? Could not name the states and her capitals. Her birds. I watched my wife wipe the table with a sponge and wondered if I still loved her. How many novels stopped dead in their tracks at page 60, 30, 10, 1? How many days do you get to you enjoy all the flaws on your body? What were you doing at sixteen? Making love with boy who wanted to be a writer? Was that a found poem or a lost cause? Why do you think you’re special? Gifted? Talented? Deluded? Sad? No one gets out alive. I wish I were here with better news.

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I Hate Myself For Loving You

Posted on November 3, 2011 by betsylerner

In a recent New York Magazine story about Michael Lewis called “It’s Good to Be Michael Lewis,” he is quoted as saying, “When I sit down to write, I like to think everybody’s going to love me,” he adds. “Or at least I don’t think anybody’s going to hate me. It’s pronoia, right, is that the word? Everybody’s out to love me, not everybody’s out to hate me? I think basically that way as I move through the world.”

I think you all know me well enough to know where this is going. ANd by the way, I love Michael Lewis. If I were a boy scout, I’d wear a Michael Lewis badge.

Here’s the point: when I sit down to write, I don’t care who hates me because no one can do a number on me better than I can do on myself. No one could ever, ever loathe me as much as I loathe myself. Not even close. Anything you can hate, I can hate better. And I do not think pronoia is a word.

What do you like to think when you sit down to write?

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Gone AreThe Dark Clouds That Had Me Blind

Posted on November 2, 2011 by betsylerner

America has voted. The most popular opening line:

First Place: Twig: Population 189 (Downith)

Second Place: My mother always started with the pig’s head. (Linda Pressman)

Congratulations to the winners! Thanks to everyone who participated. It was really fun. (Downith and Linda please send your address to me at askbetsylerner@gmail.com for your FREE BOOK. ANd Downith send your first chapter if you like.)

One commenter raised the question of subjectivity in the way agents choose. I would say that same subjectivity extends to editors, booksellers, critics and most important readers. If you can stand one more post on the subject, here are my subjective responses to these sentences:

Twig. Population 189 I just loved the simplicity of it. I immediately believed it was a real place with a tiny population. THe name Twig seemed perfect, like Forks in the Twilight Series. Immediately unforgettable. Something thin and breakable and subject to nature. There is also an authority and even bravado to announce place and population. Boom. Instead of: It was a town called Twig with a population 189.

Winter was coming – I could smell it. I liked the simplicity here, too. We have no idea who the speaker is, who the first person narrator is, but I feel like I do. I think this simple sentence is filled with foreboding. Winter is coming, no doubt, but what else: Trouble? Pain? Violence? To me, it’s pregnant with possibility.

My mother always started with the pig’s head. It’s either Southern gothic or comic. But there’s a promise that by the end of the book we will know what the mother finishes with. We also know that the pig’s head works on a literal level, but it also feels metaphoric. I also like it because I’ve read a million sentences that being with “My mother” the first that ended in a pig’s head.

My mind was on the kill. I loved this because I found it totally terrifying. I believed in six one syllable words that I was in the presence of a serial killer. Chilling.

Any last thoughts on first sentences, or anything. Like what are you doing right now.

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The CHurch Bells ALL Were Broken

Posted on November 1, 2011 by betsylerner

Dudes, you really know how to throw down the first sentences. You are one big group of generous motherfuckers and I love you all. But enough of that. As anyone who reads my blog and then submits work to me knows: there is Betsy the Blogger, full of sunshine and light, and there is Betsy the Agent, cruel taskmaster. And as an agent, these are the sentences that most interested me (not in any ranking), and that made me want to read more. I want to say that I’m not necessarily prone to simple sentences, though all of these are simple on the surface. Each of these openers set a stage through tone, voice, detail, mood. They make a statement. That’s what I’m looking for. I want a first sentence to take me somewhere.

Twig: Population 189. (Downith)

Winter was coming – I could smell it. (Sandra Guilland)

My mother always starts with the pig’s head. (Linda Pressman)

I am old, and on the whole, my life has been unhappy. (Mary Lynne)

My mind was on the kill. (American Pisces)

Here’s my thought. Please vote on your top sentence from this group. The top two will get the signed book, blah blah, but I will invite the top pick to send in his or her first chapter for an evaluation from moi. And obviously, if I didn’t pick a sentence you loved, or if you think that any of these don’t work, let’s fight about it. ANd again, thanks for the rodeo today. Betsy

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All Your Kisses Still Taste Sweet

Posted on October 31, 2011 by betsylerner

A while back, we looked at titles and lots of people gave great feedback. I’m thinking it would be great to do the same for first sentences, if you are bold enough to present your first sentence here. Think about every time you pick up a book in a store or library and turn to the first page, the first sentence. The first sentence, in my opinion, is like a key. It turns the engine over or it doesn’t. You want in, or you don’t. It immediately sets the tone, announces its bearing, gives you a sense of the kind of language a writer uses, and often telegraphs everything that follows. Does your first sentence stack up?

If you feel like work-shopping your sentence, even anonymously, go for it. And I’ll subjectively pick the top two sentences and send you a FREE and SIGNED copy for The Forest for the Trees Updated and Revised for the 21st Century.

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I’m All Shattered Does It Matter

Posted on October 30, 2011 by betsylerner

I went to the Pumpkin Bowl at my daughter’s school today. The kids were decked out in their costumes and totally pumped. WHenever I go to any school event, I always feel weirdly fragile and often on the verge of tears. It’s hard to locate the feeling exactly. I think it’s from some combination of seeing so much joy and of watching people participate so fully that I can’t take it in, as if all that life were a tidal wave threatening my shore. I think it’s also because I couldn’t partake when I was young, and in part because I still can’t. Then they played this game.

It’s a game where students smashed eggs on their foreheads. Some of the eggs were hard boiled and some uncooked. If you got an uncooked egg, you were out. But it wasn’t the elimination nature of the game that kept my attention. Instead it was the complete belief on the part of the students that they would get a hard boiled egg, and smashed the eggs into their foreheads with abandon. When the egg turned out to uncooked, the yellow gunk dripping down their faces, they seemed completely surprised. Over and over I witnessed this utter abandon of kids breaking eggs on their heads, and being totally shocked when they exploded on their faces.

Does this remind anyone else of the writing process?

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Somewhere Back In A Long Ago

Posted on October 27, 2011 by betsylerner

Hello,I received your name from a list of respected literary agents. I am about to begin my own career with a literary agency and would like to “ask an expert” for some advice on getting started. Any advice you may have, whether it be about the business side or dealing with potential clients, would be greatly appreciated. I thank you up front for your time and hope you have a wonderful day.

Best Regards, Name Redacted

Dear Newbie: First, I think this is a crank letter just in case you think I’m easily taken in by flattery such as being on “a list of respected literary agents.” I would have been more impressed if you found my name on a bathroom stall. Advice about getting started: have a trust fund, this is the book biz, baby. Have an ace in the hole. Have a list of respected editors. Have great boots. Have great taste or terrible taste, but believe in it with all your heart. March to your clarinet. Have a great accountant. Give it five years minimum. Act positive. Table manners. Don’t cut corners. Do not burn bridges. Play it straight. Generate ideas. Contact writers, experts, academics, journalists, sad young men. Try not to pay for meals. Wear ginormous specs. And this last piece of advice is from my mother: when in doubt, don’t.

What advice do you have for a newbie agent?

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In the day we sweat it out on the streets of a runaway American dream

Posted on October 26, 2011 by betsylerner

Partner lunch today. I know, it conjures images of a dark paneled conference room, glass pitchers of ice water quietly sweating, legal pads and interns that stepped out of the J. Crew catalogue. But here at DCL Agency, partner’s lunch is a tuna melt (with swiss on rye) at a neighborhood diner where the pickles are fat and the slaw is sweet. I gotta say I’m the luckiest motherfucker in the world with my partners. With all of my colleagues. It’s hard to explain because it’s not like we’re all Googly with po-mo offices and free grilled salmon and cous-cous lunches every day . It’s not like we play ping pong in the office and go on retreats where we reflect on e-book pricing and the fate of memoirs, or how to read a royalty statement. We don’t finish each other’s sentences, complete each other, or begin where the other ends.

What’s your agency like?

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H To The Izz-O, V To The Izz-A

Posted on October 25, 2011 by betsylerner

I went to a publishing party tonight hosted by Macmillan. I rarely attend these sort of functions any more because I live in Alaska. But I felt it I should fly the company colors, see and be seen, prove for once and for all that I am not pressing my hand into a disc of clay and spray painting it gold, or making a macaroni picture of a toucan or setting sun. What did I wear? How was my hair? How many business cards exchanged? Glasses of Chardonnay? I was hoping to drop in the fact that I represent an NBA finalist into a few conversations, but the conversational segue proved elusive. I did my best not to monopolize one person for fear of never finding another person to talk to. A lot of people dye their hair. I still I wish I were a man and could wear a suit and tie. I had fun. Nobody died.