I once gave a blurb to a book I didn’t read. Why? Because I didn’t want to read it, but I wanted to be a nice guy. I know how hard it is to get blurbs when you’re just starting out. Then I met someone who told me that she read a book because of my blurb. I confessed my sin. She was really upset. What about your good name, she asked. How could you do that?
Am I a bad person?
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My dearest friend, colleague, client and partner in disgust has launched a fantastic podcast called Tell Me About Your Father. It’s inspired by her superb memoir, Don’t Let me Down. I’ve been all about the mommy drama for most of my life. Finally, a conversation about the patriarchy, love, regret, abuse, daddy’s girls, the first man in our lives. The episodes are funny, moving, outrageous, in your face and by the teeth.
Got daddy issues?
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I just went into my daughter’s room and she was writing in a journal. Be still my heart. I asked if she was writing wonderful things about me. No. Anything about me. No. She says she wants to get back to writing everyday. Join the club. Actually I do write every day, but I don’t want to gloat. Is there anyone more obnoxious than a person who loves to declare that she gets up at 5:30 am every day and writes until 10:30. Yes, I can go fuck myself.
What’s in your diary?
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When I was young, I thought about death a great deal. I was obsessed with writers who took their lives. I didn’t know how to negotiate the toll of self destruction until I self-destructed. And from there it was brick by brick, every day brick by brick, every month, every year a small nod to the gods that kept me going forward, kept me on my meds, staying attached.
How do you stay attached?
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I started a new book today and when I read the dedication page, I liked it immediately: “If you need this book, it is for you.” I was filled with massive need for the book. Did I ever need a book more? Had a mirror ever been tipped so precariously at my chin? And what of that pile of books I gathered in a North Fork used bookstore. Didn’t I need those, especially the one about egrets? If you need this book, it is for you. I felt both recognized and reprimanded, which is exactly how I like to feel. If you are lost, now you are found. If you are caught, now you are free. The book is Carmen Maria Machado’s In the Dream House. We’ll see about that, little lady. We’ll see if you’re the one for me.
The book you are reading, to whom is it dedicated? And does it tell you anything?
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Watching a documentary about Miles Davis. When he was a boy, he’d take his horn into the woods and imitate birdsong. When I was a girl I’d pull a blanket, a flashlight, notebook, pen, and snacks into a crawlspace beneath the stairs and pretend I was Anne Frank.
Do you have a seminal childhood memory that connects to your life as a writer?
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If your local indie bookstore is still fulfilling orders, please buy a book from them today. Buy a whole stack if you’re able. Our stores are taking a huge hit over this crisis, just imagine how it would feel if they folded. Here’s my favorite store. I’ve spent hours there browsing, had readings and taught writing workshops. The owner Roxanne Coady is a force of nature. Her store is the heartbeat of our community.
What’s your favorite local indie?
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When I wanted to go to London for my junior year abroad, my mother sensed that I was trying to run away from my problems. I know this because she said, “You’re trying to run away from your problems.” Somehow I finagled my way there and for the first time in my life I had my own room. A single in a dormitory in the south of London. I put up exactly one poster. I had my shelf of books (lots of Thomas Hardy). And most nights, I holed up with a novel, a bottle of cheap red wine and a sleeve of peanuts. I nursed my depression in my happy cell.
What did your mother say?
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Head writing. I started another brilliant short story today while walking my dog. In my mind’s eye, it was in The New Yorker Font. The dialogue, if I do say so, was spectacular. Crisp and funny and surprising. My first sentence was sublime. And the whole thing just flowed. The further I got, on my walk, the more I wished for a pen to write it all down. It was that good. By the time I got home, it was gone.
Is head writing by definition delusional? Or just me?
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Betsy Lerner 