Posted on February 15, 2011 by betsylerner
Though I am a fully functioning human being to all outward appearances, I’m in that half-mummy, half-zombie state. In other words, I am in search of the perfect sub-title for a book I’m about to submit. The title, in this rare case, is a no-brainer. And I’d tell you what it is, but I can’t. The title is straightforward so the subtitle doesn’t need to explain it so much as offer some promise. There are all the usual sub-title variants:
How to Go Fuck Yourself
Seven Steps to Fucking Yourself
The Rise and Fall of Your Fucking Self
A Journey of
The Road to
The Path of
The Way of
A Meditation on
A Ballad of
A Song of
Notes On
The Philosophy of
The Psychology
A Short History Of
I will show off and say that my sub-title for Food and Loathing was brilliant: Food and Loathing: A Lament. It was so brilliant in fact that the publisher made me change it on the paperback to the vomitrocious: A Life Counted Out In Calories. I cut this deal so they wouldn’t put mini shakes, burgers and fries on the jacket. You’re actually glad to see a book go out of print with that shit on it.
Do you have any feelings about sub-titles one way or the other? Did I miss any?
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Posted on February 15, 2011 by betsylerner
I’m giving a talk tomorrow night. I know that craftwork sounds a little like witchcraft, but it’s going to be good. Come if you can!
Craftwork with Betsy Lerner
Mercantile Library
17 East 47th Street
New York City
Wednesday February 16, 2011
07:00 pm
Tags: Event
Free to Members and Subscribers to One Story
$8 General Admission or Donation of a Book to our Books for NYC Schools Program
CRAFTWORK
Our ongoing series of talks by some of today’s most exciting writers on the nuts and bolts of creating great fiction is presented in partnership with One Story.
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Posted on February 15, 2011 by betsylerner
Spent the day in Boston. I’m going to be honest with you: my hair looked great, which sets the tone for the whole day. Am I right? First, I met with a client. I was the editor on her first book 23 years ago and we’re still going strong six books later. We’re like an old married couple except we don’t find ourselves silent at a diner where we have nothing to say. Then I met with a prospective client who you can immediately tell is not only a leader in her field, but a great communicator. Very exciting to spend some time in her lab. Then I had lunch with one of my first authors. She’s a big deal reviewer now and the author of eight or nine books. As gifted as she is gracious. I used to always joke that she should write an author etiquette book.
Then, it was a two publisher afternoon. One an old friend, the other a new colleague who is publishing one of my client’s books. Her office was grand with books of substance everywhere. I forgot how much I love a good field trip. I love seeing the offices where people work. I like stepping into their world. It was unseasonably warm and I had a few minutes to think about things as I walked through Boston common. Is there anything more lovely than a young man with a satchel strapped across his chest and gray slacks hurrying with a paper cone of flowers for his girl? Or a pretty table set with best dishes and candles? Every beginning is beautiful. Every vase filled with flowers on a cold February night. I didn’t feel like myself. In other words, I felt good.
How was your day?
Filed under: Agent | 48 Comments »
Posted on February 13, 2011 by betsylerner
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I want you to know
one thing.
You know how this is:
if I look
at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats
that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.
Well, now,
if little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little.
If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have forgotten you.
If you think it long and mad,
the wind of banners
that passes through my life,
and you decide
to leave me at the shore
of the heart where I have roots,
remember
that on that day,
at that hour,
I shall lift my arms
and my roots will set off
to seek another land.
But
if each day,
each hour,
you feel that you are destined for me
with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower
climbs up to your lips to seek me,
ah my love, ah my own,
in me all that fire is repeated,
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love, beloved,
and as long as you live it will be in your arms
without leaving mine.
–Pablo Neruda
Happy Valentine’s Day. Try not to get too depressed. |
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Posted on February 10, 2011 by betsylerner
If you think I’m going to respond to that outpouring of love and support, you have another thing coming you beautiful motherfucking writers. Like my friend and colleague Erin “The Hose” says, I hate to be a bitch, but I hate not to be a bitch. Or something like that.
So today, I was the distinguished guest at a Master’s tea at Yale. I was invited to talk about publishing, writing, agenting, the usual. I thought it would be really clever to eat a few “pop’ems” before I left the house. These are Entemann’s idea of munchkins, only a little more dense. Anyway, I like to show up for these gigs with a little white powder on my chest in case my cred is in question. Then I like to remind the kids that life is long, but not that long. That if they do enough drugs they will become great writers. And that getting published is like getting spit on. It’s exhausting being this inspirational. The students, by the way, were gorgeous and hip and one dreamy young man, the last one on line to ask a question, told me he was writing a memoir about his search for love. Sign me up.
What would you tell a college student who wants to be a writer?
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Posted on February 10, 2011 by betsylerner
After two years and three months of posting every day with the exception of guest bloggers when I’m away, it finally happened (and I know it happens to everyone and it’s not a reflection of my masculinity), but I couldn’t get it up. I started one post after another and I just didn’t feel it, couldn’t muster the desire or passion or just plain bone for life.
My head is swirling with the comments of the last few days and I don’t where to go with that. Much is happening at work, but I’m duty bound not to talk about projects and clients in play. I’m in the middle of three writing projects and suddenly feeling that a train is about to hit me as I dance on the tracks. And someone said my blog isn’t really about publishing and I feel defensive and wounded. Imagine that! My writing book is about publishing from an editor’s perspective, but the part that people seem more interested in is the inner life of writers. The wicked child and all that jazz. Touching fire! All that matters is release. I think that’s why I write. Bring my roots rain.
Have you ever had this problem?
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Posted on February 8, 2011 by betsylerner
What to do, what to do, O Betsy Lerner? I’m a writer with a quandary, seeking your wisdom and experience.
On to the burning issue at hand. My creative nonfiction is finally selling and a total gas to write, while my fiction writing is painful despite a promising plot, characters, and agent interest. I’m tempted to bag the novel in favor of more enjoyable nonfiction endeavors, but worry I will regret it forever if I don’t see the fiction project through.
The details, you ask? Okay, but only because you asked; I hate to impose.
After my agent was unable to sell my first memoir (blergh), I have done pretty well selling chapters piecemeal to newspapers and magazines on my own this year. I have had a blast seeing my words in print at least once a month in one publication or another and cashing the (small) checks that arrive in the mail. I adore writing creative nonfiction, and often can’t wait to sit down to write when inspiration strikes. It’s a rollicking good time for me, and if the past year has been any indication, I’m pretty damn good at it.
And then there’s the novel. My first fiction, a YA book based on a really compelling true story, and the first 30-40 pages rock, if I do say so myself. I’m a teacher, and this novel is exactly the sort of book I’d love to put in the hands of my strong middle school readers. My lovely agent does not rep YA, so she gave me her blessing to find another agent who does. She, too, rocks. The first chapter and summary are currently in the hands of an agent who asked to see a chapter after one of his clients (an old friend of mine) raved to him about my work. No news yet.
Deep breath.
In your experience, is it worth it for an author to chip away at something that’s painful to execute and outside their comfort zone, or should said author continue to ride a wave of success while it’s got momentum and has the potential to fuel more work? NAME WITHHELD
Dear You: When I was younger, I believed that degree of difficulty was an essential part of any artistic equation as if writing were an Olympic sport and you could gain extra points for level of difficulty on the dismount. Now that I am old and time is running out, I think you should follow the money, and by that I mean do what you’re good at, succeed, buy a condo. Success tends to breed success. Or it brings opportunity or it buys writing time. In some ways, your story doesn’t compute because you didn’t quit after you failed to sell your memoir. You still pushed it out there and met with success. You also don’t say what makes writing the novel so painful. Perhaps it’s that deeply pleasurable kind of pain, like pushing down on a bruise to make sure it still hurts.
It’s funny. I fancied myself a poet in my youth. I got an MFA in poetry, won a few prizes, got a few poems published, went to tons of readings and bought tons of poetry books. The poetry section is still the first I check out in any store and judge it by its collection. When people ask me why I quit, the answer is: it was too hard, I wasn’t good enough. Though another answer might have been: I wasn’t temperamentally suited to that life. And another: I was a pussy. Or, I quit when it got too hard. Or, Keats. Or, my brain stopped thinking like a poet’s. Did I think I was going to write an advice book? NO. Did I think I was going to work on my fifth screenplay? NO. Did I think I was going to write a memoir. NO NO NO. Did I think I was going to write a tv sitcom? NO. What is the point? I don’t know. Except I think writers ultimately write what they can. I wanted to be Anne Sexton, I wound up Erma Bombeck. You write what you write. You are what you eat. There are no career moves at the end of the day. Just you. And the shrimp special.
Filed under: Writers, Writing, You Go Girl | 75 Comments »
Posted on February 7, 2011 by betsylerner
When I was hospitalized, a very good friend from high school, a writer friend, wrote me a letter nearly every day for six months. She was the only person in high school with whom I shared my love of poetry. Under cover of darkness, we exchanged journals. The letters were deep and intense, addressing much of what I was struggling with including my tenuous hold on life and battle with depression. She had strong opinions on these matters and her letters annoyed me as much as they helped me. She could not understand how a person could give in to depression. She didn’t believe in psychotherapy. She hated drugs with a passion. But still, those letters were amazing, just the fact of them, counting on their arrival, the familiarity of her penmanship, the pale green pages she tore out of a notebook. When mail arrived each day, I’d put her letter away until I could savor it in the day room on a worn out couch with a cigarette or two.
We fell out or apart soon after I got out. We exchanged one or two letters over the next few years. She told me that she quit writing and had become a doctor. I found the letters over the weekend. They were all tied up with a string, a fat package. I couldn’t bring myself to read them.
Was there anyone in your young life with whom you shared a writing bond? Anybody now?
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Posted on February 6, 2011 by betsylerner
Dear Betsy Lerner:
Do you ever wonder if there are great books that are not getting published? Name WITHHELD
Whenever people ask that question, it always sounds suspiciously like: is it possible that my great book won’t get published? Or is it possible that the great publishing machine might miss a great book or two? Or is there a great genius out there who does not seek publication? Or who has possibly given up?
There are a lot ways to think about these questions. Emily Dickinson always springs to mind first. Imagine sitting on the equivalent of all that literary dynamite and not seeing any of it published in your lifetime. If she were alive today she would be Lady Gaga. I think about JD Salinger who was one of the world’s great haters and wouldn’t let the likes of us besmirch his later works with our cloddish reviews and insufficient love and understanding of his characters. And then, of course, the Pulitzer Prize winning Confederacy of Dunces by John Kennedy Toole whose mother got his book published posthumously in the aftermath of his suicide (a book I’ve started a few times and have never finished). Do I think there are great books not getting published? Well, I know there are a lot crappy books getting published.
What do you think: are great books not finding their way into print? Or does the cream always rise?
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Posted on February 3, 2011 by betsylerner
Dear Betsy: Much of the work I do is written in 14-point font, but publishers and others request 12. Why the 12 when 14 is easier to read? NAME WITHHELD
You know, every now and then you get a question that touches you deeply. That cuts to the core. Font size is one of those issues. Like penises, they can be too big, too small, or just right. 12-point is the standard, friend, don’t fuck with it. And don’t go all Boldoni or Helvetica on my ass either. Bring it in 12 point type, Times New Roman, double-spaced paginated pages because there is nothing uglier on the face of the earth than an agent who has reached over for a sip of her Numi ginger tea and dropped an unpaginated manuscript all over the floor. And while we’re at it: don’t use colored paper, don’t use personalized stationery especially if it’s decorated with a quill, a typewriter, kittens, or a tiny shelf of books, don’t include a picture of yourself (really, do not), no little gifties like chocolate or gift cards especially if they’re for Cracker Barrel, no perfume, or CD’s, or a small horse made out of ear wax. Don’t do anything cute, or funny (as in ha ha), or cheeky, or silly. This is not an audition for American Idol. This is your manuscript. Keep it holy.
Tonight there is only question: what the fuck?
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Betsy Lerner 