Today, my partners and I met with a company that produces and markets e-books. Yes, yes, yes. Me with my sanitary pads and “I Heart Books” tramp stamp, I ventured down to Tribeca and got a good dose of the future. People, I don’t know about you, but what is it about Power Point Presentations that make me wonder if that borderline personality diagnosis back in ’82 wasn’t right because all I want to do is take hostages and finger paint with bodily fluids. No, no, no. I was well behaved. I wore a big girl suit, shoes; my nail polish is called “Just Desserts.” I didn’t doze which I sometimes do because I get up at 4:00. I asked some questions, one of which was responded to with the life affirming, “that’s a good question.”
Seriously, they are producing gorgeous e-books with beautifully produced interviews and other ancillary material. They seem years ahead of most publishers with e-marketing. They have the high octane energy of entrepreneurs looking for their second round of financing. There were white boards and flat screen tv’s and lots of interns in tight jeans and loose jeans and gelled hair. I learned a lot. I’m no longer against ebooks. I just don’t like the sanitary pads you have to read them on. One of my partners admitted that he ordered a Kindle. And you think you know a person.
Since we’ve done this question to death, I want to talk about something totally off topic. How phoney are you? Be honest.
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Today I received an email from a man following up on his submission. He noted that “a few agents had responded,” and asked if I had a chance to read. I had, in fact, read his proposal and sent a note the week before in which I had passed on the project. I wrote him to say that I had passed on the book, was sorry that my note got lost, and wished him well. He wrote back asking what the note said. I couldn’t find it in my sent box, and wrote back in somewhat vague terms that I didn’t click with the writing. He wrote me back again, could I give a full critique? I responded that other time demands made it impossible for me to give a full critique to every project I declined. And again, good luck.
I want to thank everyone who commented yesterday. I was deeply moved by a number of comments. I really appreciate it. In fact, I always appreciate it, old commenters and new commenters alike.
According to Kay Redfield Jamison’s book, Touched with Fire, artists and writers suffer from a disproportionate rate of manic depressive and depressive illness. What’s up with that?
Every year, I take my mother to synagogue. I would like to say that I am a good daughter, but I complain the entire time, roll my eyes. She says I don’t have to go, but I insist. She asks if I’ll go after she croaks: NO. The only auditorium I like to sit in for two hours is a movie house. Then there’s the lady who shakes your hand as you come in and says SHANA TOVA as if you’re deaf. She always asks, “are you still writing?” No, I say, god struck me dead.
This morning at around 8:30, the phone rang. I answered it. A breathless woman was on the line, “I’ve just written something, what should I do?”
Peeps! How are you? I missed you. Erin, thank you for holding down the fort and keeping up the stats. If I may start complaining right out of the gate: I didn’t get a chance to read my pleasure books, Tinkers and Henrietta Lacks. Instead, I dutifully read my manuscripts. Meow.
Betsy Lerner 