I woke up today and felt excited in a vague way. Was it my quarter birthday? Was my favorite spin instructor planning another all Glee ride? And then it occurred to me: official publication date for the revised and updated motherfucker known as The Forest for the Trees.
Okay, I admit it. I love the little fucker. It’s one of the few things I don’t regret in my life. I regret the memoir. I regret C.L. in the twelfth grade. I regret the red and white checked polyester pants my sister referred to as a tablecloth. I regret college, especially freshman year. I regret buying the five pound jar of protein powder at Whole Foods. In fact, I hate that I ever set foot in WF. I regret the Kurt Cobain tattoo on my shoulder, and not just because I won’t be allowed to be buried in a Jewish cemetery since I’m an atheist and want my ashes left in ashtrays all over Beverly Hills.
So, if you don’t own a home copy, a travel copy, and a copy to leave in your kids’ room (the new jacket is excellent for rolling joints on and/or snorting coke), please think about buying a copy and helping put this puppy on the bestseller list. I feel that with a little help, we could easily bump off Outliers, and possibly Patriots and Pinheads. Are you with me?
Last, if you leave a comment, tell me one thing you are ridiculously proud of. Because there’s plenty of time for regrets. Love, me
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On a scale of 1-10, how useful was this workshop? On a scale of 1-10, did the presenter drop names and allude to bestsellers she had nothing to do with? Did the presenter, on a scale of 1-10, sweat her balls off trying to make everyone feel good for being fool enough to be a writer in the first place? Yes, she did. And did she speak the truth? Ruth? And did she find a way to say that you may not be good enough yet, or ready, or know what you’re doing, but that it is your job to keep coming to conferences, and read and write, and find an ideal reader and never stop trying. Yes, she did. Because of all the people there, a few touched her so deeply she wanted to cry for their sweetness and name tags and sincerity and their stories. And did one guy follow her into the parking lot and whip out his manuscript. Yes, he did. That’s what mace is for.
This may be the last post I will ever write. Tomorrow, I am driving to the Adirondacks to participate in a writers’ conference. In the first place, I am a crappy driver. In the second, it’s like a five hour drive and they are expecting torrential rain. On top of that, the organizer sent directions and explained that the last thirty miles or so are really really dark, that there’s no food after 7pm so I should stop at an earlier exit if I want dinner, and there will be no one there to greet me — an envelope with a key will be waiting for me. I am sincerely hoping I don’t smash my husband’s luxury sedan. I am sincerely hoping that dark the stretch of road doesn’t devour me into a Blair Witch nightmare, my life ending in a series of handprints on a concrete wall.
Today, my partners and I met with a company that produces and markets e-books. Yes, yes, yes. Me with my sanitary pads and “I Heart Books” tramp stamp, I ventured down to Tribeca and got a good dose of the future. People, I don’t know about you, but what is it about Power Point Presentations that make me wonder if that borderline personality diagnosis back in ’82 wasn’t right because all I want to do is take hostages and finger paint with bodily fluids. No, no, no. I was well behaved. I wore a big girl suit, shoes; my nail polish is called “Just Desserts.” I didn’t doze which I sometimes do because I get up at 4:00. I asked some questions, one of which was responded to with the life affirming, “that’s a good question.”
Today I received an email from a man following up on his submission. He noted that “a few agents had responded,” and asked if I had a chance to read. I had, in fact, read his proposal and sent a note the week before in which I had passed on the project. I wrote him to say that I had passed on the book, was sorry that my note got lost, and wished him well. He wrote back asking what the note said. I couldn’t find it in my sent box, and wrote back in somewhat vague terms that I didn’t click with the writing. He wrote me back again, could I give a full critique? I responded that other time demands made it impossible for me to give a full critique to every project I declined. And again, good luck.
Grand Central Station. 8:20 p.m. Downstairs where commuters grab a quick bite. A woman in her sixties or so has Parkinson’s or a similar disease. Her hands and body are shaking uncontrollably. It’s painful to see. The man beside her, her husband I’m guessing, holds a bottle of juice to her mouth and she drinks. More? Yes, and again he holds the bottle to her mouth. When she is finished, he holds her hand and for a time the shaking eases. Then it starts up again and their hands shake together as one.
I want to thank everyone who commented yesterday. I was deeply moved by a number of comments. I really appreciate it. In fact, I always appreciate it, old commenters and new commenters alike.
According to Kay Redfield Jamison’s book, Touched with Fire, artists and writers suffer from a disproportionate rate of manic depressive and depressive illness. What’s up with that?
Betsy Lerner 
