Remember the moment in BIG when Tom Hanks presents his ideas for a new toy and his jealous colleague played by John Heard snarks back, “I don’t get it,” in an attempt to short circuit the presentation. Of course, it backfired because this is a feel good movie.
In publishing, there is an equivalent moment at editorial board. A passionate editor (maybe young) presents a book he or she loves and wants to acquire. Some (usually senior and vaguely threatened) editor says, “Who’s the market?” or “Who’s going to read that?” Look, they are valid questions, but it’s the smug, dismissive way they are delivered that sounds more like: can I piss on your face?
Maybe I’m sensitive, but that’s what it sounded like to me. An editor has to come prepared to a meeting knowing that she is going to face the eventuality of that question being asked, whether by John Heard or an editor with a few flops he’s trying to live down.
And that is why it is most excellent for you, dear author, to have some sense of that. Of course you will work with your agent to put a pitch together. But if you’re pitching to get an agent, then you should also try to make some cogent comparisons. And don’t say you’re the next EATPRAYLOVE. Comparing yourself to an inexplicable phenomenon is a mad mix of hubris and magical thinking. Of course, if you find a lovable animal stuffed into an overhead compartment of a plane that goes on to rescue everyone from hijackers, then you, by all means, should compare your book to DEWEYMARLEY et al. This is a hungry market.
Ask yourself, who is going to read my book. Actually, fuck that. Just write it.
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A fiction writer recently asked me if she should take a poetry class, sort of to jump start her writing. I thought it was an interesting idea. Look, poetry is always a good idea. But, I thought, there must be others: What about a violin class, or snow boarding? What about having an affair with a boarding instructor who is missing part of his arm? What about shoplifting? What about staying in your house until you’ve eaten everything. Hello, smoking! Remember how well that used to work? Hitachi magic wand. Go to therapy. Get on the couch. Do it. Talk about how much you want to blow your therapist, how you really don’t hate your parents, how everything reminds you of something you ate. Am I forgetting anything? Work in a bookstore, volunteer somewhere, trompe l’oeil the garage! Clean! Throw away five hefty garbage bags full of stuff. Pick your face, pluck your eyebrows, moisturize. Read a book that is 1,000 pages long. Cut up your credit cards. Stop talking. Write in long hand! (Betty Lerner is a big believer in the long hand!). Get up at 5:00 am. Just get up. Or, stay up all night. Become delirious. Get a dog. Get a divorce. Get a physical. Use index cards. (Big believer in index cards!) Remember: no one cares if you write. Not god, not the angels, not the editors who turn tricks on 42nd Street. In fact, some people would prefer it if you didn’t write, would sooner see you wriggle on a hook for your whole feckin’ life than reel one in. What could be more liberating? Do it precisely because nobody gives a shit. Because language has not yet begun to go bald. And you are a star.
Just when you thought it was safe to go back into the water, Bret Easton Ellis returns with a new novel, his sequel to Less Than Zero. Man, does 25 years fly by. I was an editorial assistant when LTZ came out. How many words in Eskimo are there for “jealous.”
Came to NYC to go to BEA parties: Google, Bookforum, Tin House. Wore my one frock, high heels (and if you know me this is absurd), and a touch of make-up. It was 92 degrees a full moon refused to focus above the Chrysler Building. I had my game face on when something happened, not a panic attack exactly, just a flush of anxiety tinged with desperation and petulance. Did I really want to go? Who would I see? Should show my face. Why? And so it goes, a revolving door of doubt, immaturity, ennui. Am I part of this world? Am I a part of any world? The funny thing is, I always have a really good time at parties. I suspect that when your expectation is dread, nothing can be so terrible.
Are all writers narcy? Is it an occupational hazard or prerequisite for the job? I once dated a writer whose bedroom was lined with framed jackets of all his books. After I slept with him, he loaded me up with copies of all of his books as I was leaving. Thanks! How narcissistic are you and does it help or hurt? What does it really feel like to sit down with that notebook or computer? Just you, beautiful, terrible you? And what of those pages staring back?
Can you teach writing? Asked another way, is talent god-given or genetic? How much does hard work matter? Where does drive come from? Are some people hopeless? What is a gift? How important is publishing in the writing equation? Asked another way, is writing fulfilling enough on its own or is it only consummated when you see the words in print? And what is it, exactly, to see those words in print? What is the charge?
