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
For me, for most of my life, writing and loneliness went together. I was a lonely kid. I was perfected my chameleon skills in high school, I passed through college unnoticed. Every diary I have is a study in loneliness, is a sustained screed, a nursed wound, a bruise, a plum. Writing for me was not being alone. Writing was a great conversation, a balm, a salve, a bicycle built for two. I’ve been thinking of throwing them all away, the thirty or notebooks, the pages like cotton batting, the covers plastered with ticket stubs and photo booth pictures, and the silver backs of gum wrappers.
What I like about agenting is that it’s a three ring circus. Just as you sign a new client, or sell a new project, another client delivers a book, you go to a publicity and marketing meeting, or you get out your red shoes and go to a reading or party for a book just published. You’re there for the birth and baptism, the prom and wedding, the break-up and divorce, the death rattle and death. In my heart of hearts, I’m still an editor. I wonder if I would have lasted or gotten bumped like so many others on editorial row. I preferred being an editor because you’re closer to the whole gestalt of the book from editing to jacket to publishing plans. And I liked being part of a publishing team.Though I was also part of some pretty viscous teams. LOL. People trust editors. Agents not so much.
Similes and metaphors blah blah blah. How do you pick out the telling details? The pencilled in eyebrows, a long second toe with a gold ring and a peridot, the moles in the shape of a spade on a large man’s lower back. Panty lines, chipped plates, a piece of floss on a painted cement floor. The girl with bangs and a cello on her back. A man trying to smell his own breath. A moon that means nothing. A sunset that means less. All of nature and her cubs. A wash of guache. Some days I think I’m Michael Barbaro. Other days Mare or Mary Anning. Is it possible to be sixty years old and still walking up to cranes with the one and only essential question of the universe: are you my mother?
It looks like publishers are opening up their offices slowly and more fully after Labor Day. It’s all a big work in progress trying to figure out post-Covid office life. Every editor I’ve spoken with is thrilled to know that he or she could work from home 2-3 days a week. What most writers don’t know is that editors don’t get to edit at their desks. It’s mostly done during the evenings, weekends and for some early risers the dawn hours. It takes sustained, quiet time, which is the opposite of the office life where meetings crowd the day, and phone calls and email and lunch dates and liaising with all the other departments. Editing is the heart of the job and it’s what most editors take the most pride in. It still is for me even though I crossed over to the dark side 15 years ago.
I had my first post-Covid lunch date with an editor yesterday. I was rusty, I admit it. Plus, I will also admit that the older I get the more irrelevant I feel even if i am a badass or am a former badass or whatever. When I was a young editor, I HATED having lunch dates with agents. They were all so fucking sure of themselves. Established. Had all this insider knowledge and summer homes and kids in boarding schools and designer tote bags. And I’d be in my little Anne Taylor suit just trying to pretend I knew who or what they were talking about. I remember listening so hard and pretending to be empathic. The whole point is to get them to send you their projects. One of the more powerful agents sent me something I really liked but the editor in chief made me turn it down. When I told her I couldn’t make an offer, she said, “Well, you obviously don’t have any power over there.” LOL you go that right. I’m just a turd with an expense account. And then, Alice, I became an agent. Here I am. Blinkety blankety boo. The young editor I met yesterday was LOVELY. Smart, funny, discerning, spoke about books in an original and fresh way. None of this “I’m looking for bestsellers” nonsense.
An old friend gave me some notes on my script over the weekend. They were fucking excellent. I know this because I didn’t get defensive. I didn’t curse her out. I didn’t start picking my face. I knew they were right. It was like having an infection and someone offers you antibiotics. You fucking take them. Great notes are like gold. They’re like a rope ladder, a nest of threads, clouds moving over the moon. Gratitude, Queen.
I did a zoom event tonight with a group of women in sisterhood at a Florida synagogue. It had been a long time since I had the chance to talk about The Bridge Ladies. I had been to over 40 synagogues and JCC’s and libraries when the book came out. I had my schtick down. Knew where I could get my laughs, where I tried for a few tears. I felt like a cross between Henny Youngman and Totie Fields. Often the places were decked out with bridge decorations and bowls of bridge mix. Like so nice. Once, I got to play with a bridge master. Usually, I’d collapse in my hotel room after a burger, fries, and a gin and tonic. I can still hear the sound of my suitcase wheels clicking along the tile floor at the Sheraton. Tonight, the rabbi who hosted the event quoted lines from the book that went to the heart of things. Really wonderful questions. I was so grateful for the chance to revisit the book, the bridge ladies, and my mom. She died two years ago.
What question would you most like people to ask about your work?
In the sixth grade, I asked my favorite English teacher if I could try some creative writing. She told me to write a poem or a story and bring it to her. Thing is, I meant calligraphy. I thought fancy lettering was called creative writing. Being both proud and embarrassed, I pretended that’s what I meant and brought her a poem the next day. She was blown away and encouraged me to keep writing. That’s my dirty little secret. This whole career is predicated on a massive misunderstanding.
I had my three month check up with my psychopharmacologist today. How am I? Steady. Sturdy. Stable. Same. He and I go back thirty years. We’re like an old married couple. I know he can tell how I am from the sound of my voice more than anything I say. When I found Dr. Mas, it was after ten years of misdiagnosis. Many doctors, many meds, many bouts of mania and depression that looked like weight game and weight loss and bad writing and worse sex and navy blue backless dresses, and loneliness and isolation and confusion. What helped me trust Dr. Mas, even though I really resisted the diagnosis and the medication, was that he cared about my writing. He knew that people complained of Lithium making them flat, robbing them of their creativity. He said he would work with me and find the right dosage. For thirty years I’ve been steady, sturdy, stable. Same. I’ve written three books and co-wrote three others. I have ideas all the time. I take my meds every day and even though I don’t go to the moon, I don’t sink beneath the waves.
I spoke to a very young agent today who reached out for advice about agenting. It was an all too obvious reminder that I am old, that whatever was going to happen has mostly happened, that I no longer have to worry about certain things, that I know how to do my job and give advice more often I seek it. My hair is graying, my back likes to complain, and when I have a pencil in my hand I know exactly what to do with it. I guess that’s something.
Betsy Lerner 