Today, I got on the subway carrying my red Knopf tote bag. A young woman who looked like Jean Seberg got on carrying a New Yorker tote. She was looking at her phone; I was looking at mine. I wanted her to notice me. I wanted to be her. I wondered if she worked in a cubicle at the New Yorker, reading short stories until she died of boredom. Or maybe she waded through millions of poems and went home at night and played flute. Of course, she smokes either Gauloise or American Spirits. She looked sad. Her girlfriend keeps picking fights for no reason and the paint on the radiator is curling like bark.
What short story did you walk into today?
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Someone recently asked me if I felt anxious about the book coming out because it is so personal. Get to know me. I’m anxious because it might not sell. I’m anxious because the New York Times might say mean things, or worse say nothing at all. I’m anxious because if I fail it’s not only in front of my friends and family, but the publishing profession where I work. I’m anxious because I’m not in therapy and I probably should be. I’m anxious because I don’t feel like myself, meaning I feel a little hopeful and that is just not part of the package. I’m anxious because it’s all out of my hands now with the exception of boosting Facebook pages and going up and down Fifth avenue in the sandwich boards I’ve made with the Queen of Hearts on both sides.
Betsy Lerner 