A professional acquaintance asked me to look at a novel a few weeks ago. Sure, I chirped. Ug, I thought. The novel began with an author’s note that I think was meant to create an air of mystery. It said the story might be true, or it might not. My reaction to the note: who gives a shit? I mean, it’s work of fiction, right? If you want to tell me it’s based on a true story, tell me. If you say it’s all made up, I automatically think it’s not.What is your expectation when you read a novel. My feeling is that whether it’s actually true or not, its first obligation is to feel true, even if it’s science fiction, maybe especially if it’s science fiction. The world you enter whether it’s the ped next door or the inner ear, it has to feel fuckin real. Why did that note strike me as so…obnox? I’m sure it had everything to do with the tone, but it really got me thinking about fiction (I mostly represent non-fiction). I do find it amazing that we, as humans, want to read made up stories and the reason we want to read them, at least in part, is because they seem true.
What’s up with that?
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Maybe because I was wearing my Johnny Cash shirt, but something got into me today. I met with this acclaimed film director to talk about a project. THe hour or so went really well, then we segued into the small talk before parting. We discovered that we both loved Blue Valentine and Ryan Gosling’s broken man thing. I ventured that I love Mark Ruffalo’s broken man thing even more. She totally agreed — so I started yammering about his other movies like You Can Count on Me and Eternal Spotless Sunshine and she said, no, wait, it’s that other movie that he’s so great in. I guess Zodiac, and she says no, no, the one with Meg Ryan. I knew exactly what she meant but instead of saying In the Cut, I say you want me to eat your pussy in my best Mark Ruffalo impression. She rears back, like what the fuck! Idiotically, I say it again, only this time more emphatically and trying to pooch up my lip like Ruffalo’s, you want me to eat your pussy.
I turned in my revised article to Poets & Writers today. I’m really hoping they take it because I could use the dough. And I’ve always wanted to get in there ever since they turned down my article about author photos eight years ago. I still can’t believe they didn’t snap it up. Speaking of snapping things up, I received three Monday morning rejections today. It’s a good fuck me Monday morning feeling. Saw my therapist today, usually I go on Fridays. I’m the same fucked up person on Mondays as I am on Fridays. Why is this day no different than all other days?
Constitutional Law Professor 
I think I’m done with the five part series on fame. It’s all such a mind fuck anyway. There’s no winning the fame game because everything fades. Because someone else will be anointed, crowned, bequeathed, and beheaded. Of the many lies I hear writers say is that they would just be happy to have their book published. That’s like not being asked to dance after you’ve put on your party dress and stood eagerly all night on the sidelines. It’s like being the last girl at the bar, 3 a.m. with your legs shaved. You are the tree in the forest no one heard fall. The nail in your own casket.
The all time best moment of my life was at a Christmas party last year. This scene actually happened IN FRONT OF MY DAUGHTER. I am introduced by the host to a young woman:
When Food and Loathing was published, something exciting happened. I was invited to go on The Today Show. How the publicist scored this, I will never know. In short order, I was told that I needed a) a new look and b) media coaching. The shopping trips resulted as they always have since fifth grade: in tears. The media coaching was worse. A petite, perky woman with frosted hair, a fat belt slung around her hips, and bright lipstick tried very hard to get me to sit up straight, look into the camera, and break me of the habit of going silent after a questions was asked, which apparently made me look brain dead. DNR!
This begins a five part series on fame. I met with a publisher who talked about a writer we both knew at the beginning of his meteoric career. Now, twenty years later, this writer is still a big deal. The friendship had its ups and downs over the years, but the two were solid now. I asked if the quality of the friendship was still as good. No, not really, the publisher answered, he’s changed. How, I asked, though of course I new the answer as soon as I asked it. Fame.
Meds? Check. Passport? Check. Notebook? Check. Panties, socks, striped shirts. Check. Secret project? Check. Powerbars, pencils, lucky necklace, crap magazines, manuscripts. Check. Did I say Passport? Jesus Christ where did this day go? Going to London to bid farewell to one of my dearest friends and the agent who taught me the only thing you really need to know: play it straight. No matter what mess I was in, I could call Abner for advice. He’d listen carefully, turn it over, you could feel his mind working like a master chess player, and then he would say, you know, I think you should play straight. Every time I went to London, he found a new restaurant for us to try that specialized in Dover sole because he knew I liked sole. And every time, after I took a few bites, he’d look at me and smile and say, “how’s the sole?”
Betsy Lerner 