Dear Betsy:
My question concerns blogs written by writers. When are these blogs a good idea, and when are they not? Because you work in the publishing industry, I’m wondering how they’re perceived there. I also wonder what kinds of things agents and editors wish writers would not do in their blogs. –Name Withheld
Dear Wondering:
First came the wave of book contracts based on blogs, perhaps the most famous being Julie and Julia, I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell, and Stuff White People Like. A blog is a great way to develop a voice, and to find an audience. My sense is that the best blogs have a real focus. So writing about writing generally is probably less interesting than writing about first novels, or rejection, or writers and fondue. When you submit a book to an agent/editor, you will probably include your website or blog link — or the agent will probably Google you if he or she is interested. You want that site or blog to look great, even if you don’t have a ton of content or a following. You want it to look like you have a web presence. I essentially started my blog to convince my publisher that I wasn’t dead yet, to convince them to let me do a revision of Forest for the Tree. Mission accomplished.
What do you all think out there — what’s the up or downside of all this blogging? Has it helped your cause?
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I was all set to get back on the horse this morning, but I find myself doing laundry, grappling with IRS bill from 2008, writing checks, examining pinky toe, considering something violent. My head feels like an overripe melon. I’ve spilled my decaf twice in the same place. Even the dog doesn’t want to play with me. My jaw is a vice. Stepping on the scale would be suicidal. Does it matter that I did three deals this week. That the hopes and dreams of three writers have been wound like a fat gold watch swinging through the night skies. Why did I wear those shoes? Why did I cut my own hair? How can I sit by the side of the road and wait for an email that never comes? Can I find the thread, does it already exist like a silver hair, or glistening spittle? Where was I when my father died? Did he hear me sing Winchester Cathedral? My baby left town.
Dearest Readers of this Blog: I want to thank the people who comment and the undertow of lurkers for putting up with my peri-meno posts of the last few weeks, whinging about my screenplay and general douchification. I’m beginning to see a way back in. And I really want to thank the person who said make it darker instead of lighter. And while that may not be the way to go, it was good to have someone remind me that the daughter of darkness is not a pussy. Anyway, I just want to say that the wheels are turning, thank you for the pep talks and the wrist slaps alike; I’m not going to use this “platform” to dirty any more diapers.
Why do I get so grossed out when writers talk about their craft, their process, or worst of all: their art. In part, it sounds phoney to me, as if you could qualify, quantify, codify how you work. You’re a lucky bastard if you’re any good at all and that’s all you need to know. Do we really give a shit if you write long hand or on a computer, or god forbid a Olivetti 400. These aren’t cars. I also think that writing is completely mysterious; you never know when the hell you’re going to make a break-through or when the words will dry up and float away like new year’s paper. My process is I smear shit on the walls and watch it dry. My process is I jerk off then I write. Sometimes twice. I take Haldol and Immodium and compose. I starve myself for three days. I talk to my dogs. I do a full body groom. Who cares how many drafts you wrote as if writing more drafts makes you better, when, in fact, it might mean you’ve still got your training wheels on. Who cares if you shifted from first to third. Who’s on first? Who cares if you cut half your pages. Double down! I’d rather look inside your sock drawer, your medicine cabinet, your bank account. I’d like to see the condiments you keep. Then I might have a clue about how you write.
I completely forgot about the “Ask Betsy” part of the blog. It goes to a separate email account, which I checked tonight. There were a ton of emails, mostly for penis enlargement and Viagra, which is handy because I need both desperately. There were two blasts from my past. And if you know anything about my past, that is generally not welcome. There were lots of questions not worth posting because we’ve been over them a zillion times: Is it okay to make multiple submissions? YES. What if my agent stops returning my calls and email? MOVE ON. Do I have to finish my novel before I submit it? YES. Do I need an agent? PROBS. Should I Tweet? IF YOU HAVE NOTHING BETTER TO DO.
Okay, it’s no secret, I’m in free fall. If you’re looking for a little inspiration, click the hell out of here. I’m going through the motions of my life but I am lost. Though I only showed my screenplay to one person, it became completely clear that I had swung wide and missed. The feedback for the screenplay and the tv pilot are basically the same: drop the drama and push the comedy. In grad school, I tried some humor in some of my poems and Richard Howard asked me if I wanted to be the Fran Liebowitz of the poetry world. I’d rather be the Chris Rock, but whatever. The stars are organizing themselves in a constellation and it looks like Groucho Marx. Why do I resist the Borscht Belt in my DNA? Why do I want to write about the drain and its inexorable pull downward? Why do I wet myself watching America’s Funniest Home Videos? Why do I want to write about men and their scratchy balls, about betrayals small and large, and hurts and misfirings, and pettiness writ large. Why does death cling so dearly? Why can’t I keep it light?
The New Yorker’s blog is asking 
