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.
We talked about that for a while. Some people seem to feel that fame confirms what they felt all along about themselves. For others, it brings on imposter complexes, insecurities, paranoia, etc. I wonder if it’s possible to remain unchanged by fame. What is it and why is is so desirable, cash and babes aside.
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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?”
I met a BDP (big deal producer) today who was amazing. When he was a PYT, he optioned a magazine article from New York Magazine that became Saturday Night Fever. Saturday Fucking Night Fever. Bam! Better yet, he wasn’t a one hit wonder or the kind of person who keeps talking about his one big thing. I once had lunch with an agent who had one hit, and he literally talked about it all through the lunch. I had no idea what he was talking about but played along, or played dumb. When I got back to the office, I discovered that the book he was talking about was TWENTY years old.
It’s the Jon Stewart hour after a long Monday. I have a stack of manuscripts that still need reading and a 378 page Restoration Hardware catalogue. It is the mother of all RH catalogues. There’s a also a Garnett Hill and Eddie Bauer, but they seem lame compared to this tome from RH. I realized some time ago that home decor catalogues were almost as good as Valium and twice as addictive. I tell myself to read at least one more proposal. But I just want one little peak inside the catalogue. One little peek at the nickel finishes, the “antique” sconces or the generously proportioned mirror recalling the shape of Moorish windows — a zinc finish lends the wood molding an aged patina. I wonder if I could do mash up of Pride and Predge with Restoration Hardware? Maybe I could do a mash up of my ass and my face.
I have a little problem, among many larger problems, and I’m going to break the news here and first on my blog, among my nearest and dearest strangers: Whenever I write, I fall asleep. Boom! One minute I’m typing and the next I’m out, nodding off in front of the monitor. It wouldn’t be so embarrassing if it didn’t also happen in front of my writing partner. At first, I tried to pretend it wasn’t happening, like the way you head snap at the movies or the opera and hope the person next to you doesn’t notice. As if.
It’s that time of the year when Publishers Weekly releases its “Facts and Figures 2010” issue. I fuckin’ love this issue. It’s pulling back the curtain on real sales figures which publishers, agents, and writers all lie about, inflating their performance like a frat boy on a Sunday morning. Plus, it’s just damn fascinating to see what sells and sells. Going through the list this year didn’t yield any major surprises or screamers. Though a new fiction king was crowned:
I didn’t read my horoscope today, but if I had I think it would have said: you will meet a sexy, tall, blue-eyed blond rock star, a friend needs you, and spring is almost here — stay on your meds! It might have also said, a “colleague” is going to try to treat you like dog shit — don’t let him! You will eat sushi with Jews! And someone you love hates you!
Betsy
First day back from vacation, mother Louise. Over 300 e-mails, two blasts from the past, still chasing money, still hammering contracts, signing a new client, getting a new project out the door, notes to three writers, (call my accountant, dog walker, airline, mother), three manuscripts delivered, send 
Betsy Lerner 