Okay, it’s no secret, I’m in free fall. If you’re looking for a little inspiration, click the hell out of here. I’m going through the motions of my life but I am lost. Though I only showed my screenplay to one person, it became completely clear that I had swung wide and missed. The feedback for the screenplay and the tv pilot are basically the same: drop the drama and push the comedy. In grad school, I tried some humor in some of my poems and Richard Howard asked me if I wanted to be the Fran Liebowitz of the poetry world. I’d rather be the Chris Rock, but whatever. The stars are organizing themselves in a constellation and it looks like Groucho Marx. Why do I resist the Borscht Belt in my DNA? Why do I want to write about the drain and its inexorable pull downward? Why do I wet myself watching America’s Funniest Home Videos? Why do I want to write about men and their scratchy balls, about betrayals small and large, and hurts and misfirings, and pettiness writ large. Why does death cling so dearly? Why can’t I keep it light?
Identity crisis or pity party?
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Spent a few days in Ann Arbor to help raise money for Dave Eggers 826 volunteer tutoring organization. Given my crush on The Eggman, I had to say yes. I gave two talks, signed some books, did a q&a and had Mojitos with some of the staff and writers, including our own beloved Sherry Stanfa-Stanley. It was good to know that a) commenters are real people and not a figment of my overactive imagination, and b) SSS is a great person. Seriously great.
Okay, so not only am I not pulling down bank, I had to pay $10.81 for internet access tonight from the fabulous Doubletree to post what might be the most explosive blog ever ripped from the annals of agenting. So I’m walking my dog this morning and I run into a vague acquaintance who stops to chat, and leads with: so are books dead? Friends, remember, I was walking my dog. I had a plastic bag filled with warm shit. In other words, I was armed and dangerous. Are books dead? Bernard Malamud said book will be dead when the penis is dead.
Hello,
I want to vomit on myself. In a sense, I already have. I’m referring of course to my screenplay, completed last night, reread this morning. What am I a fucking lonely goat herd? A refrigerator mom, a Skinner box? What am I doing? This is my fourth fucking one and they are getting worse. What am I, an organ grinder, an amino acid, a straw dog, a felt beret? What am I doing with these stumps? Wasn’t I happier for the twelve years when I stopped writing entirely? YES. Wasn’t I thinner? YES. Was able to do seventy five push ups? YES, YES, YES. Do I embrace life? No. Do I believe in love? Somewhat? What the fuck is writing anyway? What am I, a Mack truck? A pair of gold sandals? A forest full of trees? A baby carrot? Two buckets of blood?
While we’re on the subject of money, there was an 
The envelope from Penguin arrived today with the light blue sleeve. Royalties! Writing is great and all, but there is nothing like a royalty check to make the heart go thump. I can not tell you how gratifying it is to know that some number of persons found my book, stood in a line at a cashier or clicked through, and brought it home and left it on a side table, a shelf, the can. Thank you so much! I am in a good mood, dear readers! I’m going to use the money to pay for my daughter’s camp, not the jewels and blow of yesteryear, but still.
When I was a young girl, maybe ten, my grandfather called me farbisn, which is Yiddish for stubborn, bitter, truculent, dogged, and grim. This is what makes me a great agent. I am girded for this line of work. Bring it on: rejection, silence, lies, manipulation, disappointment, heartbreak, heartache, psoriasis, insult, injury, insecurity, douchery, failure, abandonment, revenge, pettiness, gossip, mind games, schadenfreude, back stabbing, pain, suffering and free-floating unhappiness. You can’t break my heart, my spirit, my determination because I am a bitter old man in an aluminum chair, a transistor radio plugged into my ear, with two days of white stubble and a borscht stain on my button down, window pane shirt and tan cardigan. Do you read me?
People always ask me when I write, their voices filled with bewilderment and wonder. I like to make up answers to this question depending on who is doing the asking. I write at dawn, I write all night, weekends and vacations, I write on the train, I write every morning for two hours, I write when I can, ha ha ha ha. I write all the time. I don’t know when I write! When does anyone write!
The other night, I participated in a fundraiser known as “Pitching Roulette.” This is where you sit at a table, and every ten minutes a different writer sits down across from you and tries to interest you in his or her work. Not a single person slipped some cash or hash under the table. That would have helped. Some talked the whole time and were impossible to help as a result. Some got so flustered they put their papers away in a fit of shame. One woman said, can we just sit here? Yes, my darling, we can sit here all night. We can sit here even though my pants are tight and I want to hit a deli on Fifth. Even though we will be getting our one minute warning in a minute. Even though I pray I can make a 9:50 movie, alone and in my heaven. One woman pitched three different projects. No, no, no. Who the hell am I to talk like this? The truth is I like helping people, even if just one person grabs on to one thought or idea and is reinvigorated. But I also feel old, tired, cynical and I don’t like it when I can smell another person’s breath and it smells like teen spirit.
Betsy Lerner 