Let’s get crunchy and talk about flap copy. The two or so paragraphs that are the equivalent of a book’s welcome mat. Editors are generally responsible for the copy, though they usually cadge it from the catalogue copy that they write months earlier. All of the copy writing that goes on is actually very important as it “positions” a book and communicates its salient points. WHen I first had to write flap copy as an editorial assistant, you would have thought I had been assigned to write the inaugural poem. I was petrified. The writing style was completely foreign to me and I had no clue how to boil a book down into a few paragraphs and distill its essence. I started reading the flap copy of every book publishes by the house and I started to see patterns. All flap copy has a certain tone, a basic movement, you want to entice but not be a spoiler. You want to establish the book within a tradition, but make it seem original. You want to cast the basic ideas or story lines in terms both specific and general. You want to flatter and entice the reader who is deciding whether she wants to buy the book. In other words, you want to land the ball close to the cup. Flap copy is a little like American cheese.
How to write flap copy: Start with a rhetorical question. Or lead the author’s credentials. Or describe the situation or inciting event. Or make a claim for the book’s importance. Once you’re in, you’ve got about five different dance moves to squeeze into two or three paragraphs. And you need a final sentence that’s like a scarf pulled from a magician’s sleeve.
I’m giving away three signed copies of TFFTT to the three best first lines of flap copy, real or imagined.
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Over the years, I’ve received my share of fan letters, marriage proposals from inmates, and the occasional hate mail. But today, I received a really shitty piece of hate mail, notable for its largely incomprehensible thought sequences, forced intimacy, and comparison of my tits to dirigibles or Subway sandwiches. Thank you for taking the time to write. Thank for defiling the beauty of an envelope, the sensual pleasure of opening a letter with a brass and ebony letter opener from Africa in the shape of a pelican. Thank you for taking my baby teeth, my pee in a wax cup, my first dance. Please take this stamp on your tongue like acid, like holy communion, like a child blind with happiness and know that you are not mine.
I got back on the pony this weekend. I realize why I had been avoiding it. Writing is freaking hard. Ha ha! There’s a news flash for you. Two things always happen to me when I sit down to write: I either have to go to the bathroom or I nod out. Why is it so hard? I always hated it when people said relationships were hard, that you had to work at them. Why? I sort of feel the same when people complain about writing. It’s not as hard as laying brick. I’ve also believed that the prolific among us, the truly great, don’t suffer. It comes to them, they go to it. But of course, many great writers suffer horribly. What am I trying to say? What am I getting at? If writing is so hard why do you stick with it? Why not garden, or cook, or soak in a tub? What’s with this shit?
I was invited to give an interview via Skype for a website about publishing and communication. This little turtle tucked her head right back into her shell. It’s bad enough I have to see my trail of slime known as this blog, but I just couldn’t face seeing myself. Mirror, mirror on the wall, who is the most self-loathing of all. There was another invitation for a phoner. Sign me up! I did a lot to promote the revision for the Forest for the Trees, articles, e-cards, snail mailings, panels, workshops. I even sat around with a bunch of writers in Ann Arbor and talked about butt plugs, for chrissakes. And for what: an uptick in sales. An ego hit that doesn’t last as long as a crack high. To spread the gospel according to moi? I’m lucky, yes, for sure. I was a girl intent on other darker things. And somehow I found the words to say something else about life and writing and publishing. Why am I crying? Why do I make myself sick? Bobbi?
I had a really nice lunch date today. What constitutes a good lunch?
When I was younger and met people who lived for the weekend, I had a great deal of disdain for them. Or to use a word I only discovered this weekend (in a book): misprision. First, I thought it pathetic that you would spend five days a week dreaming about a fishing pole and a Heineken. But the real reason was I hated weekends. What I hated even more was people asking, “how was your weekend?” For me, my life has been about working. I didn’t really start making the friends I really loved until I was in my thirties. I put everything into my work. I would spend entire weekends editing and be grateful for the engagement. I was a workaholic and I didn’t want a cure. It was never ambition that fueled me. It was fear of sinking. Fear of the great wave. Of my legs entwined in weeds, my cries unheeded. How was your weekend? I read a book about Sylvia Plath and I’m fifty one years old almost. The only thing worse than a weekend is a long weekend.
Dear Betsy: 
Fifty minutes suspended in time. Today, I spaced out, time traveled, went deaf. The carpet has triangles filled with circles. Someone else’s head dented that pillow. My therapist is beautiful. Older, elegant. She wears one perfect bangle. Could you say that again? Where did you go ? Am I getting worse? Am I in the sweet spot? Could you say that again? Is there a river? Are you in my movie? Did you sponge down the counter top? Does the bangle slide on easily? Is time up? What are you feeling? What?
Summer hate list:
Betsy Lerner 