I was on a flight from Amsterdam to Newark the other day when I noticed that every other person was reading a Kindle. Then it hit me. I am almost fifty years old and I might never have a book published. By that I mean a real book that I can hold next to my heart and then put away on a shelf. Even better, on my mother’s shelf. Something I can finish. Something I can dedicate. I have written all my life, but nothing has ever been really truly finished. I enjoy my status as a late bloomer, but now I see I may be too late for a real book.I feel bookless. Like I felt childless at 30.
I might have an electronic book and that would be cool, and sure, I know the important thing is to join the party, the great cosmic conversation that started at the beginning of time and will continue to the very end. But I can’t help feeling like 1s and 0s did not speak the words of Levin and Benjy and Daisy and Raskalnikov. They simply can’t carry that weight.
What is that weight? Does the sharp end of our pencil protect us from the void? Is it the tons of printing press searing words into the paper – forever? Is it the knowledge that once you sign off on your manuscript there is no turning back? Is it the force of gravity itself?
Filed under: E-books, The End of the World as We Know It, Uncategorized | 43 Comments »
I woke up today and felt excited in a vague way. Was it my quarter birthday? Was my favorite spin instructor planning another all Glee ride? And then it occurred to me: official publication date for the revised and updated motherfucker known as 
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.”
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?”
