THE FOREST FOR THE TREES is about writing, publishing and what makes writers tick. This blog is dedicated to the self loathing that afflicts most writers. A community of like-minded malcontents gather here. I post less frequently now, but hopefully with as much vitriol. Please join in! Gluttons for punishment can scroll through the archives.
If I’ve learned one thing about writers, it’s this: we really are all alone. Thanks for reading. Love, Betsy
I got a letter today from a writer I haven’t heard from in over a decade, maybe longer. We didn’t end on a bad note, we just ended or so I thought. Are agents and clients supposed to mate for life? Some break ups are as bad as marriages and I know I’ve handled my fair share badly. Never purposefully, but I didn’t have the poise, the skill, the courage to say what I felt or needed. I know an agent who broke up with clients by not returning their calls and emails. “Eventually,” she said, “they take the hint.” The goal is to stay together, to keep inspiring and enjoying the mutual admiration society of two, to feel that we are in this rat fuck together.
Two words: Colleen Hoover. You’ve probably noticed that she has six books on the bestseller list. I’ve been meaning to take a look into the phenomenon because I’m nothing if not an old man with drool on my chin at OTB trying to game the races. Today, the NYT put her on the front page and ran a long article about how she was making $9 an hour as a social worker and living in a trailer when a fairy godmother called Amazon dropped in and she self-published her first book, SLAMMED, a YA about a misfit poetry girl who does slam. According to the article, her books (now 20 of them) have sold over 20M copies. My favorite part of the story is that she put her work out there and according to the article, first six, then sixty people bought it. Does the word mushroom mean anything to you? She now has more that 2.4 billion views (plus one more because I just checked out her TikTok). She didn’t have an agent or a publisher (those came later). She had readers who loved her book. Unlike most novelists who stick to a genre, she’s all over it with thriller, domestic drama, romance, etc. What I love about her is her fatalism, (“Still in my head I’m like this is going to end tomorrow,”) which is why she is always welcome here at the Lerner Sanatorium for Writers and Convalescents.
My kid sister Gail Lerner wrote a middle grade novel, The Big Dreams of Small Creatures, and it went on sale this week. I’m so insanely proud of her. She’s a big deal Hollywood writer and director, but her dream was always to write a novel for kids. It’s smart, funny, and deeply moving. I like to take credit for all of her successes but I was just a tremendous role model. My work ethic, my many books, my publishing acumen, my abundant creativity, my joy. Sending out lots of love to my Gaily, my turtle, my otter, my sister. Check out her book or better yet get a copy for the coolest kid you know.
You got sibs?
“In the delightful new book The Big Dreams of Small Creatures by Gail Lerner, a young girl named Eden Evans discovers she can speak Wasp: Yes, she can actually speak to them, with the help of a kazoo, but I digress. From that miraculous discovery to the thrilling roller coaster ending, Eden and August, who is terrified of insects and wants to destroy them, find conflict and adventure and a whole new world in the coexistence between humans and insects. What an enchanting and wondrous book for young readers.” —Jamie Lee Curtis, actress and bestselling children’s book author
“From fumbling fourth-grader August to introspective, independence-loving Eden and their friends, both human and insect, Gail Lerner’s characters are a delight, full of heart and humor. The Big Dreams of Small Creatures is a whimsical adventure highlighting the wonders of the natural world—and our sometimes complicated relationship with it—and the importance of kindness, compassion, and seeing things through another’s eyes.” —Robert Beatty, author of the bestselling Serafina series and Willa series
Thanks to everyone who responded to our friend’s letter about what it takes. I think you covered all the bases and with a lot of generosity. When I was a part time assistant at an agency during grad school, the owner gave me a manuscript and asked for a reader’s report. The manuscript was over 400 pages and I read every word and took extensive notes. I typed up an extensive report describing the plot, characters, setting, etc. I thought it was terrible through and through, but I also thought who the hell am I to judge this guy’s work, or torpedo his career with my novice reaction. My boss didn’t he even look at the report. He just wanted to know what I thought. I could barely get the words out. When I finally said it wasn’t very good, he told me to get rid of it. That was the first rejection letter I wrote. I lost my virginity on that one.
Thirty plus years later, countless letters, I still feel the same way. Who the hell am I? Only now I know something else. It’s not just about liking something or thinking it’s “good” or that it will sell. Everyone in the business has missed a book that went on to sell a boatload of copies. (Full disclosure: I passed on The Liar’s Club.) That said, when an agent or editor takes something on they have to know how to sell it, how to pitch it, write about it, feel the overwhelming desire to share it with others, you have to feel that you personally add value, use your contacts to help the book get attention, you feel that you bring special to it, and that you’re prepared to enter into a relationship with that person and be in their corner, and do everything you can to make their book a success. That’s what it takes.
I received the following letter in my Gmail account. I asked the author if I could post it anonymously. The writer agreed. Does anyone have any wisdom they can share?
Hello Ms. Lerner, my name is XXX I am a creative writing student at XXX and an aspiring author. I was hoping to take a moment of your time to ask you about publishing. I am looking to improve my craft however I can and would greatly appreciate it if I could have to honor of learning from you.
Before self-publishing my first novel on Kindle I inquired at about 100 agencies around the U.S. to see if I could get it published traditionally. All attempts failed, and I think I now know why. Even after much research and practice, I am admittedly poor at the actual selling of my stories. Letters, blurbs, summaries, and pitches are well outside my expertise.
So I would like to ask you, what is it that truly grabs you and keeps a manuscript in your hands? How do you know what you should read out of the endless piles of manuscripts?
Thank you so much for reading. Any wisdom you can provide would be greatly appreciated.
One of Joan Didion’s friends, the writer Susanna Moore, had the best anecdotes about Joan, each one came with a withering one-line quip delivered by the tiny oracle with complete certitude. The one I can’t stop thinking about is: Crazy is never interesting. The sophisticated audience nodded and laughed with recognition. Half of them swallowing their pills at night and crying to their shrinks: depressed, imposter, impotent, sad, unloved, unappreciated, lost alone. I first found poetry and art through Robert Lowell. And Sylvia Plath. Anne Sexton. Vincent Van Gogh. Mark Rothko. Goya. Crazy is never interesting. Agree, I run from crazy writers now. I worshipped them in my twenties and thirties. I sidled right up to the crazy, the abject, the abusive, the hilarious, the cunning, the desperate, the mean. It’s not that I no longer find them interesting. I just care a little more about myself.
Thrilled to share that Starry Messenger hit the New York Times bestseller list today at #3. Being a Jewish mother, I’m wondering why not #2 or #1. I can’t stop pushing. Nothing is ever enough. Is there extra credit? Will I ever be good enough? Thin enough? Smart enough? Rich enough? Rough enough? I celebrated with two pieces of pizza and a DIet Pepsi. Start spreading the news: I KNOW HOW TO LIVE. I might vacuum a little later. Or if I’m really living large, Q-TIp.
Here’s a confession: I never read under the covers with a flashlight. Didn’t love Harriet the Spy or Little House on the Prairie. I didn’t become a reader until junior high when a handful of books were passed around: The Godfather, Helter Skelter, Jaws, The Shining and my favorite, In Cold Blood. And later in high school when poetry wrapped its scarves around me. Lowell, Plath, Sexton, Rimbaud, O’Hara, Larkin, Ashbery. Thin volumes I found and devoured, the meaning mostly out of reach but not the pleasure. The exquisite privacy, discovering a new language. Sometimes people say books find us. I’m not one of them.
I went to a baseball game yesterday, but all I could focus on was the family in front of me. Mom, dad, two rug rats, and grandparents. At first, they seemed like the “perfect” family apart from the very sad grandpa who either had dementia or profound depression. He stayed in his own world, his mouth in a weak grimace. No one tried to engage him. The kids were kids: obnoxious, petty, cloying, demanding. The parents seemed together enough as a couple until a dispute erupted over sharing Cracker Jacks, and then battle royal: deciding when to leave. The grandma, it is noted, wanted to stay until the seventh inning when they sing God Bless America. Her patriotism was also evident in stars and stripes sweater. She was a “young” grandma, stylish hair cut, earrings, and shimmied her shoulders to the music, enthusiastically threw her arms in the air for the wave. The mom announced she was staying until the end, the dad thought this was a big mistake on account of the traffic. This escalated until no one was speaking, the kids were crying and suddenly all the little details of their life stood out: his apple watch on a leather band, the girl’s slight speech impediment, the mom’s tasteful eye make-up., her Lily Pulitzer belt missing a hoop. Then the boy’s leg got caught in the chair and he cried as if it were being amputated. Reader, the Yankees won. The family left at the top of the eighth inning, which the husband declared in a tone that was half knowing and half disgusted that it was too late.
When I fall, I fall hard. Right now I’m talking about social media. I was doing so well, off all of it, and now I scroll in bed in the morning, on the train, on the can. I had actually gotten to page 300 in War and Peace and honestly loving it. Not the grand sweep of the thing, but all the petty exchanges between the dukes and ladies. I’ve turned my back from that masterpiece (and my stated goal to only ready masterpieces until I take my last breath) and instead I am looking at shirtless cowboys on Tik Tok, spaghetti bolognese on Facebook, Keanu Reeves on Instagram (okay let’s always make a little time for that), and pretending that Twitter is political and therefore “important.” I’m also back on Diet Coke, not doing my posture exercises and thinking ill of people in ways that rival Tolstoy.
Betsy Lerner 