Posted on April 10, 2012 by betsylerner
Where do I begin to tell the story of how great a love can be? Tonight, friends, it begins with American’s sweetheart Vivian Swift on the occasion of the publication of her second book, Le Road Trip. If you have ever ripped open a warm baguette, sniffed the cork of a bottle of French wine, or tooled around Paris at dawn or midnight and fallen in love with the doors and cobblestones, and if while doing any of those things you desired a brilliant guide, or friend, or sublime observer, then raise a glass to Vivian and, better yet, click through and purchase a copy and save the planet.
Any memories or dreams of France you’d like to share with Ms. Swift welcome.
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Posted on April 9, 2012 by betsylerner
I did it. I added to Lion’s Gate’s coffers, buying a ticket to the 300 plus million dollar gross and counting for Hunger Games. I heart Catniss. You had me at bow and arrow. Lips untouched by Botox. Chariots and Stanley Tucci in a blue hairdo. (Just for the record, I also saw a rare print of Orson Welles Chimes at Midnight and the brilliant Iranian movie The Separation, which I feel I need to tell you the way you might tell your nutritionist that you had some salmon and broccoli along with the Sno-Caps and Goobers. ) High art v low. Critical v. commercial. Those standards don’t smoke themselves. It’s an argument I’m always vexed by since I go both ways. When interns and assistants ask me what I’m looking for when they read the slush, I always say the same thing: prize winners or page turners. Are they mutually exclusive? Once something gets really popular it seems to go down in the cultural estimation, where obscurity, should it by chance (or design) come out of obscurity, will get a certain kind of praise for its “authenticity.” I liked the fucking Hunger Games. Sue me.
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Posted on April 8, 2012 by betsylerner
I went to Whitlock’s over the weekend. It’s a converted chicken coop and barn that’s home to thousands of used books. The floors slant, the books are full of dust, the people who work there use pencils and brown bags to tally your purchase, and on the counter by the door is a hen-shaped candy dish made of milk glass that holds slightly stale gum drops. The place was my sanctuary when I was in high school, and it’s where I found many books that would shape me. It was up for sale a few years ago and I dreamed of buying it, and began worrying about the slanting roof and floors as if I’d already owned it. It’s only one of my escape fantasies. Thought probably the best or at least right up there with becoming a powerful Hollywood screenwriter and living at the Chateau and hiring twins in matching stewardess outfits with their own fold away dancers’ poles.
What’s yours?
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Posted on April 5, 2012 by betsylerner
TONIGHT at BARNES & NOBLE at UNION SQUARE at 7pm:
Eric Erlandson (born January 9, 1963, in Los Angeles, California, United States) is a musician best known as the co-founder (with Courtney Love), songwriter and lead guitarist of alternative rock band Hole. In 1989, Erlandson began working at Capitol Records as a royalty accountant, and auditioning for bands in the Hollywood area. He responded to an advertisement placed by Courtney Love in the Recycler, a local classified ad paper.
Upstairs at the Square With Eric Erlandson and Melissa Auf der Maur
Eric Erlandson
Author Event (Poetry)
Thursday April 05, 2012 7:00 PM
More about this event
Union Square
33 East 17th Street
New York, NY 10003
212-253-0810
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Posted on April 4, 2012 by betsylerner
Took a new client out to lunch today to celebrate the sale of her first novel. The Riesling was dry, the beets glazed with extra (extra!) virgin olive oil, and the waiter equal parts flirtatious and pretentious. This is the best part, being the straw, the slide, the spoon. Corner man. Fairy god. Icing. Cake. Saying one right thing. You’re hot shit. Watching a story turn into a snow storm. Spotting a nest in a high branch. Getting up at dawn. Weaving hay into gold. Sentences unfurled like mardi gras beads of gold. Tiny yellow patent leather shoes. A girl’s hot head dreaming on her pillow. The waiter brushing crumbs from the table.
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Posted on April 3, 2012 by betsylerner
My uncle married his girlfriend after they had known each other for just a few months. A week or so after their wedding, he went into their bedroom with one arm behind his back. “How well do you know me?” he asked his new bride, all fluffed up with their new bedding and pillows. “Excuse me?” she might have said it a tad distracted by the thread count and down. “How well do you know me?” His voice now tinged with just a hint of menace. “What? Honey?” Again, he repeated the question, “How well do you know me?” only this time brought his arm out from behind his back to show her the large kitchen knife he had been hiding. She screamed until he could finally calm her down. And the story lived in family lore as evidence of my uncle’s twisted humor.
How well do you know me? Or anyone?
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Posted on April 2, 2012 by betsylerner
By Maryann Yin on March 29, 2012 3:07 PM
GalleyCat contributor Jeff Rivera interviewed self-publishing success story Amanda Hocking for mediabistro.com’s So What Do You Do? feature.
When asked about why most writers who self-publish are not able to achieve what she has, she replied:
A lot of authors tend to over market or they don’t take criticisms very well. They think that their book is perfect. They don’t want to get bogged down with editing or covers, because they think their book is so good. Or they market too hard. All they do is talk about their book and nobody wants to hear, ‘Buy my book.’ They want to have a conversation with you … Also, new writers respond to negative reviews and have great catastrophic meltdowns. You can’t respond to reviews at all except to say ‘thank you for reading the book.’ That’s the best you can do; otherwise, you’re just going to look bad even if the reviewer is totally out of line.
Follow this link to read the rest of Hocking’s interview.
I’m posting this article from Media Bistro because I have been obsessed with the question of HOW these internet phenoms get so big. Lots of people publish their books on-line. How do you get to be McDonald’s? I want to know because I’m curious. I also want to know because I secretly burn to grow this blog. What I learned from the interview is that I have to be prepared to do a lot more than I’ve done or continue to do. Sending one or two paragraphs of smoke up the internet’s derriere every night is not going to cut it. Or getting chummy with some bloggers who will remain nameless. I haven’t read Amanda Hocking’s novels, but damn I respect her work ethic. When I was her age I could barely cross the room to look for rolling papers.
Honestly, how hard do you work at growing your business?
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Posted on April 2, 2012 by betsylerner
Today, after living in this house for three years, I’ve finally got some bookcases coming. I’ve looked at every catalogue, gone to every second hand store, bought and returned two different cases. I found a young man who can build anything and he designed a bookcase that will perfectly fit my wall, and the trim will match the trim about the window. I already know that I will be sad to see the piles of books on the floors go. I hate change of any kind, even for the better. I don’t hate it exactly, I just get tremendously attached to certain things being a certain way. I have a fantasy to paint them the way Virginia Woolf painted hers. Or maybe Vanessa Bell painted them, but the sides were decorated with harlequin panes and I remember being completely delighted by them. But I’m too much of a pussy. Plus I can’t paint. When I was pregnant I made the mistake of trying to paint a dresser and trompe l’oeil a side table.
I know I’ve talked about bookcases before; but it’s the closest thing I’ve got to a soul.
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Posted on March 30, 2012 by betsylerner
I threw a book party for John last night. His novel The Variations was displayed everywhere, daffodils on every surface and a loaded bar. A literary brawl broke out over the relevance of Chekhov, cocaine was snorted off my Ouija board, a tall young man looking for an agent pretended he wasn’t, and I made a speech for John that was all about me. When the last person left at 1:00 a.m., John and I shared a drunken kiss and walked up Sixth Avenue to a crappy hotel. Heaven.
Have a great weekend. Love, Betsy
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Posted on March 28, 2012 by betsylerner
Today, the flood of men and women exiting the subway reminded me of grade schoolers lined up for a field trip. I could see their childhood faces, their satchels and cases, their laces lovingly tied, buckles buckled. I felt a rare happiness when I refilled my Metrocard and walked through my city feeling more alive than not. A man held a door open for me, a banker asked after my health. And a pale girl with thick braids rolled a cigarette with a tiny filter and wrote along its side: n’est pas une pipe. This is where I used to walk, these bricks, that window casement, the neon sign in the delicatessen with apple turnovers the size the tricorn hats. My first love was a boy named Chris who played a steel guitar. And we sat there. And shared a pastry.
Who was your first love? Have you written about him or her?
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Betsy Lerner 