Why is everyone so needy today, or do I have the worst case of PMS known to mankind? Speaking of PMS, there’s a feature in today’s NYT about a young (like 19) year old woman who put together an anthology about girls getting their first period. It’s called My Little Red Book, I think. I had an early opportunity to represent this book and I passed because I didn’t think that anyone would want to read about getting your period. Did I make a big mistake? Are you there god, it’s me Betsy.

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I hate to admit to watching Barbara Walters, but her interview with Mickey Rourke provided all the Oscar entertainment I needed. When asked what it would mean to win, Rourke replied, “Well, Barbara, you can’t eat it, you can’t fuck it, and it can’t get you into heaven.”

This is about as close to a world view as I could hope to embrace.

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Taking a break from my publishing notes, I feel the need to comment on something I read in New York Magazine on the elliptical machine this morning. Apparently, all of Kate Moss’ friends thought she was pregnant! No, Kate assured them. She just put on a couple of pounds and they went to the right place. She commented, “How lucky.” Perfect for modeling her new line of lingerie. I don’t know, I think lucky is consuming a barge of heroin and not dying. But that’s just me.

There was also an article about male models, who, contrary to popular belief, are not all gay. One of these straight young men in lusting after a particularly fetching female model said, “I’d drag my balls through a mile of glass to have her.” I’m sorry, but I don’t know any guy who would do that, straight or gay. Hmmmm. Actually, I have to think about that.

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Instead of a lunch date, an editorial director and I went for a manicure. Indulgent? I like to think of it as multi-tasking. I promise you, once we picked our color (“Nasty” for me and “Tea Time” for her), we did not exchange notes on waxes and weaves. Rather, our conversation turned to the author we have in common, to new books on the Fall list, recent firings and the depressed job market, Kindles, and the recent sale of a novel that has industry tongues wagging — for the money it fetched, of course. Except for the women pushing our cuticles back and the complimentary back massage I received, it was like any other publishing lunch. And since everything sucks anyway, you might as well have a decent manicure. ?

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Tomorrow we’re interviewing six candidates for an assistant position at the agency. Without even looking at their resumes, I can bet they’ve gone to good colleges, speak Swahili and know Quark. I’m telling you, these kids today are sharp. Why then do they want to work in publishing? Because they love literature? I repeat: why work in publishing? Didn’t they get the memo, god and the book are dead.

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I’ve been trying to remain upbeat, but another week of firings — this time at HarperCollins — makes it impossible. Too many of my friends have lost their jobs and in the game of musical publishing chairs, too many chairs have been eliminated. More than a few people have said that I was smart to get out when I did. At the time, it was terrifying. I felt that editing was my calling, and that agents were a necessary evil. I am relieved to have a share in my own company, to not worry about that moment when the boss comes in your office, closes the door, sits down with a grim smile, and you know the rest. It doesn’t mean that we are free from financial worries; it just comes in a different shoe size. I’m very sad for my friends as well as the whole damn business.

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I heard from a new client today who remarked — it seemed somewhat wistfully — that we hadn’t emailed or talked for over a week.  I am familiar with this phase in the agent-author relationship. We go into the selling mode after many weeks, sometimes months, of working on a proposal together. During this time, we speak or email many times a day as editors call with interest, or to reject, and sometimes we grumble about why no one is calling. The point it, contact is intense and frequent especially when interest from publishers is shaping up into an auction.

After we sell the book, we talk about the contract, and a few other details, but basically, it’s time for the writer to go write her book, and for the agent to work with another writer. It’s like breaking up with someone but staying friends. Not quite. The relationship can stay very close, but there is nothing like that intense period during which you are selling a proposal for a writer. They entrust you with their baby and your professional abilities are on the line. It’s the high-wire.

For the writer, it must feel, in some way, to be in free fall after the sale. All that attention and focus suddenly turned elsewhere. The idea that somehow your life will change when you finally get that book contract, and, unless you’ve gotten an advance in the millions, life is pretty much the same: Cheerios for breakfast, check e-mail, procrastinate with random household chore, teach a class or whatever, go to a movie, be irritable with spouse. Hey, doesn’t anyone see I’m going to be PUBLISHED?!?

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Between us, my associate and I spotted: Nicole Kidman and Mr. Nicole Kidman on the treadmill at the Beverly Hills Hotel spa; Jason Schartzman at a funky breakfast place wearing cut-off sweats and showing off his hirsute legs. His girlfriend was an adorable red head and they were either in love or BFF’s. You know, really comfortable with each other. Joe “the Pen is mightier than the bat” Torre looking slim and tan and not missing the Bronx for one second. John Lovett in tennis whites. And, swoon, Diane Keaton looking like…Diane Keaton. Full flannel skirt, longish jacket with fat belt, and a grey bowler. I love LA.

People never believe me because I’m a card carrying New York neurotic, but it’s true: I love the land of valet parking and Arnold Palmers. I love the funky architecture and signage. I love the way everyone is on the make. I like the names of the streets: Ventura, Van Nuys, Wilshire and of course driving late at night on Sunset, windows down, a canyon of tacky neon pulsing with some Jim Morrison ghost dance, some escaped song.

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I’m going to LA for a few days, you know, to do some business on the coast. LOL. Seriously, I’m taking some “meetings.” My clothes are all over my bed. My 11 year old daughter is laughing at me. I don’t know how to dress in NYC, let alone LA. I mean, of course, all black in NYC, but LA? Is white the new black?

Last week, a fifty-something producer from LA came to our office. He was wearing jeans, a cashmere sweater, and ginormous white leather sneakers (Converse?), and he had the most astounding case of bed head, as if he set up a little tent on his head. I want to wear jeans and sneakers but something tells me I have to wear slacks, a jacket and SHOES. WTF, I’ll figure it out.

More important, what am I taking to read on the plane? 80 pages of a client’s new novel. 150 pages of the end of a client’s memoir. And a huge manuscript by a novelist who has turned to true crime. I’m totally psyched. Great stuff.

What do you have on your Kindle? (I actually don’t have a Kindle.)

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People keep asking: how bad is the publishing world? It’s really bad. Too many firings, too many publishing divisions merged, too many budgets shredded, too many disgusted shareholders, too many book stores closing, and too many book reviews folding. Though I’ve been asking friends if anyone remembers a time when the book business was thriving, when poets got fat and journalists lived like kings? As one of my first bosses was fond of saying, “it’s a nickel and dime business.” She got that right. The question now is how to stay afloat, how to maintain, how to do your best work when no one wants to publish, stock, review or even slam your book down on the remainder table. How to marshal your talent, ego, desire, and will, and at the same time quiet your insecurities and doubts long enough to write? I always hated it when famous authors were interviewed about their writing habits and they’d say, “I have to write,” or, “if you can do anything else, do it.” There was this false note, I felt, imploring people to do something else as if the writer wished he or she wasn’t burdened by this writing jones. Maybe it bothered me because I was able to do something else and did. Maybe it bothered me because it’s obnoxious. I’m getting off the point here. It’s really bad out there. You should only write if you have to write. And if you can do anything else, do it.

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