There are a few used bookstores here and I could happily die inside any one of them. Where do floorboards better crick? Where is the smell of death and must more erotic? Books that bear inscriptions speak of happier times. I sometimes wish I wore a hat when perusing the poetry section, belles lettres, autobiography. The only marketing here is the conversation among the books themselves. The undead. Why is the store owner always eating a sandwich on black bread? Why does he seem not to notice our patronage until we pile a stack of books by the register. Did I wake you? One store has a candy dish filled with gum drops. Another a picture of a golden retriever now certainly gone.
What’s your favorite used bookstore?
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I brought an “upmarket” commercial novel to the beach and all I can say in a word, marshaling all of my critical skills, is: feh. From time to time, I choose a book from the bestseller list because I feel it is incumbent on me to know why certain books sell and have wide commercial appeal. Sometimes, it may be better not to look under the hood and just take the car for a ride. I wish I could do it, wish I could feel the wind through my hair. I think the bottom line for me is that I don’t look to books for entertainment. I will sit through the most flatulent Jennifer Anniston romcom twice, but I can’t read a crappy book. My interest in reading is in the writing. I don’t care that much about anything else or even what it’s about. If the writing is interesting, I’ll read about horseshoes.
I’m at my sister’s vacation house, typing from a hammock on a roof deck. I’m beginning to relax, which is always a little dangerous for me. I’m more of a worker than a relaxer. I’ve only very recently, and only in small doses, been able to tolerate vacations. Instead, I’ve always used vacation as time to write. I’m actually petrified of letting down, coupled with the fact that I generally can’t stand being with people for more that 4-5 hours. Don’t ask me to rent a house with you! I have a one night sleepover limit. Plus, I hate eating new foods, trying new things, and going to new places. Otherwise, I’m a ball of fun. I was once asked for an interview where was my ideal vacation spot: a twelveplex.
I’m going to speak on a panel tonight at NYU. I went to school there and I can’t set foot in Washington Square Park without hearing almost any song from Blood on the Tracks, remembering where I met my first boyfriend, the classrooms that overlooked the park, the teacher droning on about Them by Joyce Carol Oates, the the skies that went from white to green, and the back of the neck of a young man I fancied, pebbled and red. I remember filling notebooks I would never read again. Eating sunflower seeds. Making love or dreaming about it in the library carrel while I wound my way through the Canterbury Tales and nursed a crush on a man named Rasam. Once, I read Group Portrait with Lady instead of Portrait of a Lady. Ha ha ha! And I still passed the test. I was so lonely in college. I spent a lot of time alone. I wrote a million poem fragments in appreciation of my pain.
I was all set to get back on the horse this morning, but I find myself doing laundry, grappling with IRS bill from 2008, writing checks, examining pinky toe, considering something violent. My head feels like an overripe melon. I’ve spilled my decaf twice in the same place. Even the dog doesn’t want to play with me. My jaw is a vice. Stepping on the scale would be suicidal. Does it matter that I did three deals this week. That the hopes and dreams of three writers have been wound like a fat gold watch swinging through the night skies. Why did I wear those shoes? Why did I cut my own hair? How can I sit by the side of the road and wait for an email that never comes? Can I find the thread, does it already exist like a silver hair, or glistening spittle? Where was I when my father died? Did he hear me sing Winchester Cathedral? My baby left town.
Why do I get so grossed out when writers talk about their craft, their process, or worst of all: their art. In part, it sounds phoney to me, as if you could qualify, quantify, codify how you work. You’re a lucky bastard if you’re any good at all and that’s all you need to know. Do we really give a shit if you write long hand or on a computer, or god forbid a Olivetti 400. These aren’t cars. I also think that writing is completely mysterious; you never know when the hell you’re going to make a break-through or when the words will dry up and float away like new year’s paper. My process is I smear shit on the walls and watch it dry. My process is I jerk off then I write. Sometimes twice. I take Haldol and Immodium and compose. I starve myself for three days. I talk to my dogs. I do a full body groom. Who cares how many drafts you wrote as if writing more drafts makes you better, when, in fact, it might mean you’ve still got your training wheels on. Who cares if you shifted from first to third. Who’s on first? Who cares if you cut half your pages. Double down! I’d rather look inside your sock drawer, your medicine cabinet, your bank account. I’d like to see the condiments you keep. Then I might have a clue about how you write.
I completely forgot about the “Ask Betsy” part of the blog. It goes to a separate email account, which I checked tonight. There were a ton of emails, mostly for penis enlargement and Viagra, which is handy because I need both desperately. There were two blasts from my past. And if you know anything about my past, that is generally not welcome. There were lots of questions not worth posting because we’ve been over them a zillion times: Is it okay to make multiple submissions? YES. What if my agent stops returning my calls and email? MOVE ON. Do I have to finish my novel before I submit it? YES. Do I need an agent? PROBS. Should I Tweet? IF YOU HAVE NOTHING BETTER TO DO.
Betsy Lerner 