Tomorrow it begins. The parade of meetings that lead up to the Frankfurt book fair in October. Editors from all over the world come to New York in their hunt for new books. During these meetings, we schmooze about publishing, we find out what books are working in their countries, and we pitch our clients, hoping to find a British, German, Japanese, etc. sale. We have a rights guide that we’ve created with a description of the book, jacket, and author bio.
I’ve always loved meeting foreign publishers and editors. In the first place, they usually have really great glasses and rings, lot of index finger and thumb rings in particular. Sometimes enormous stones of lapis or onyx. Next, the women usually wear great wool tights, and the men usually wear smart suits that fit well. Then, there’s remarkable perspective they offer….on us. Why some American books travel and others don’t. What books are popular in various countries and how they are marketed. I love the feeling that all over the world, editors are basically doing the same thing, that the number of people is small, and the industry intimate.
Last, there is nothing quite as satisfying for a writer than seeing his or her work in translation. Or for the lucky few to have a whole shelf of foreign editions. I once dated a writer who framed all the jackets of his foreign editions.
Would you find that fetching or obnoxious?
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I spent most of the weekend reading. Lots of clients delivered manuscripts they had been working on this summer. And some prospective clients have surfaced. I’ve been blown away by a few revisions. THere is nothing more impressive to me than a writer who isn’t afraid to junk some material in favor of a fresh start, or who can really crack open a piece instead of just moving the mashed potatoes around the plate. One of my great pet peeves has always been when a writer returns a manuscript a little too quickly, claiming a full revision, only to find a work that has been tweaked like a hem raised a quarter inch. But then, another writer will go away, burrow in a for a while, and eventually return with a revision that inspires you all over again, and produces in you that feeling that got you hooked on this work in the first place.
“We should do something fun and healthy, like run the marathon in Paris.”
I didn’t write as much as I wanted to. I didn’t read as much as I wanted to. I didn’t sleep as much as I wanted to. I ate more than I wanted to. I obsessed about work more than I wanted to. I had more catastrophe fantasies than usual, and I have a half dozen at least on an average day.
As of tomorrow, I’m doing it: I’m unplugging. No blog, no email, no vibrator. I’m taking off until Labor Day. I’m giving myself two writing weeks to revise my screenplay and turn it into the perfect vehicle for Marisa Tomei and Andrew Garfield. I will miss our nightly lovemaking, but I hope everyone hunkers down with their writing as well. Or, does something really fun like go to the beach or roast corn or see the new Planet of the Apes movie. 
This is a post about something very difficult to come to grips with that no one likes to talk about — it’s about hitting the wall. And by that I mean when you are stuck, whether you’re crashing into the wall or the wall is crashing into you. I’m not talking about a bad day or even a few months of writer’s block. I’m not talking about a string of rejections or seeing your book on the remainder table where no one wants it, even for $5.99. What I’m talking about is something deeper and more terrifying. It’s when you realize you’ve been writing the same book over and over. Or when you can no longer stand writing in the register you’ve been writing in and don’t know how to get out. This isn’t a slump, a bad patch, a bush-league case of writer’s block or stage fright. This isn’t about not being able to come up with a new idea. This is bad. It’s when you understand the limits of your imagination, intellect, creativity, skill, or drive. It’s when you no longer know when you’re faking it; when you’ve succeeded at fooling yourself. I’ve seen it in writers over the years. You can’t say anything. It would be cruel, like waking a sleepwalker. You know the writer is in agony even if he can’t admit it to himself, even if he’s on the couch five days a week, it’s almost impossible to admit.
I’ve always been turned off by people who say they can’t write certain things until their parents die. Does that mean they go around hoping for mom and dad to choke on a pecan at Thanksgiving? I don’t think you can hijack your writing for the sake of people’s feelings. And who are you really protecting? And I’m not just talking about confessional or autobiographical writing. All writing has something at stake, or should, in my humble. You don’t have to engage in character assassination, or pen a Mommy Dearest, but you have to take me there. I want a manuscript to take me somewhere I’ve never been, or somewhere I’ve been a million times and show me something new. I don’t like polite writing, polite conversation, or conversation about weather. I want a writer to be fearless because I’m a pussy.
Betsy Lerner 