Happier times
Do you live inside a shoebox? Are you a scrap of paper tucked inside my notebook? Do you care how the pages feel quilted from pressing down so hard? Or the tape, now yellow, where you pasted in photo booth pictures? Didn’t you think that someday a biographer, or a graduate student, would stumble upon the two dozen boxes, the twenty-seven notebooks, find the scraps like crumbs leading to your oven. How silly you would sound! How hard it all was! And for what? There are two kinds of people, someone once said, only can’t remember: lefties and righties, innies and outties, assholes and bigger assholes? You can not recall another Fall when the acorns underfoot were so hard to crack.
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Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me. I didn’t touch the screenplay all weekend. I worked instead on what I call “work work.” Read and edited all weekend. Saw one movie and took two long walks in what was arguably the “perfect fall weekend.” But otherwise, I read. In the hammock, on the patio, on the couch, in my bed. Everywhere I go a trail of manuscript pages and eraser shavings, coffee mugs and Diet Coke cans. I didn’t even read the freakin’ NYT and the cover of the book review is a review of the new Philip Roth by 
Often when I turn down a project, the writer will ask me to recommend other agents. Obviously, I would like to help him or her but it’s sticky. In the first place, I often don’t know who to recommend, or I don’t feel comfortable making a referral which implies my belief in the project. But there’s something else: agents do not look kindly on agent referrals — at least in my experience. If a writer approaches me and says Slinky Suburban at ICM thought you might like this, my first thought is: why didn’t Slinky take it on herself? I wonder how other agents feel about this. Are you happy to get a referral, no matter from where? If I turn something down and have a very strong hunch that another agent will like it because of some inside knowledge, I will refer that agent to the writer — and once in a while make an introduction.
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 
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.
