Let me just come right out and say that there is almost nothing more beautiful to me than a jacket that is perfect for a book. And by perfect I mean that it gets you to want it before you’ve read it and makes you want to keep it afterwards. I think the beauty of book design is more crucial than ever as readers have the choice whether to buy and read a physical book or download one into their assbook. But I cared deeply about this long before you could purchase a file. Since I was very young, I didn’t even want to read a book if I didn’t like the jacket. I discovered some of my heroes because of their covers: Houseboat Days, In Cold Blood, Day by Day, Horses. But it’s not just the art, it’s the marriage of title and art, the way they work in tandem.
What I really hate more than anything is what I fondly call a Massengill cover, just some douchy artwork that is as generic as the crap you see at a street fair. It usually has a title to match like The Bland Daughter, or Heaven’s Happy, or Marco’s Oil. And the authors look like suburban women who sell real estate by day and are vampires by night. The men I can’t even talk about because they are scary as in: may I help you with your groceries, miss?
Please write in with your favorite jacket covers ever, if you like. Especially a book you bought just because of the jacket.
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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?
You park the car at Walgreen’s, can’t remember what you came for, trying to remember feels like trying to do quantum physics. Four boys, young men, cross the parking lot. They are thin and own the asphalt with their enormous untied sneakers as big as boats! They will grow into them like puppies into their paws. They will be great lovers or crappy lovers; they will never remember the feeling of being this loose. I get out of the car. Moth balls for my husband, hair conditioner for my daughter. Swick and swanky, long and lustrous, mango peach. Didn’t I need something?
Betsy Lerner 
