Somehow, I got to be fifty fucking years old and half my life has been lived in the service of helping writers bring their work to the public. There isn’t a day when I’m not that girl in an ill fitting Ann Taylor suit riding up the elevator on her first day of work at Simon and Schuster, or making my first offer on a book and being embarrassed to say the number, or opening the NYT and seeing my author get a rave review, or crying in front of my boss John Sterling when a book was trashed by same paper, or going to the National Book Critics Circle Award or a reading on the lower East Side, or asking an agent over lunch if he and his wife were gay (did not go over), the BEA when I slept with two writers, and the BEA when I picked my face so badly it bled. I remember pencil shavings covering my chest and post-its lining the walls, and playing Scrabble with Rick Moody in his boss’s office and soaking up everything I could learn about the literary life, hearing juicy gossip about people you only knew by reputation, spreading it. I remember the great Alice Mayhew furiously marching down editorial row screaming “Amateur night, amateur night,” when she believed an agent had botched an auction. And I remember thinking that was the worst thing you could ever be called: an amateur. I remember feeling betrayed, loved, admired, hurt, stung, played, and appreciated. Then there is every book I’ve ever worked on and the story of how it came into being, the back story of every decision and choice that we agonized over in the hope of getting it right.
So when a young editor takes me for coffee and asks my advice about whether there is any future for editors, I don’t know what to say. It breaks my heart. We only worried about whether we would make it, find a spot on editorial row and kill it. We didn’t worry about the future of publishing. We worried mightily whether there would be a place at the table, but we never doubted the existence of the table itself. How do you soldier on in the face of so much uncertainty? Do you think about the future of book publishing, the table?
Filed under: Books, Publishing, The End of the World as We Know It | 36 Comments »
you invite me to your house, I’m going to rifle through your medicine chest. It’s that simple. In that spirit, I want to know what you’ve got on that dang Kindle. I can tell you what’s on my bedside table: Henrietta Lacks, Tinkers, some book about Russian novels with a Roz Chast cover, Savage Detectives, Stuff, Words in Air (I never finished the last 80 pages because I didn’t want it to end), and a book that has the calorie count of every food on earth). So what are today’s most sophisticated and critical writers and readers downloading, i.e. the readers of this blog? Or if you’re still holding out, what’s on the night table?? Hit me.
A soccer mom buddy is reading the Franzen on her Kindle. I submitted a new project to 16 editors on Friday; they all wanted it for their Kindles. Friends, I can feel it. Just like the answering machine, the VCR, the cell phone, the IPod, and sanitary napkins with wings — innovation will win out. I noticed at B&N that you could get a Kindle cover from Lily Pulitzer, Coach, and Burberry. Now, that’s special.
Dear Betsy,
Seventeen hour day and still on the train. Phew. Highlight of the day was a meeting with a publisher and her colleague. They came to do a dog and pony and brought lots of books, promotional materials and catalogues. They explained how they make editorial and formatting decisions, and how they market and promote, etc. They are doing an impressive job on the internet marketing; this is not true for all publishers. The books are gorgeous. It made me long for my editorial days. When people ask me if I miss it, this is what I miss: making the book. As involved as I am as an agent, I’m not talking to designers about end papers and trim size and coated stock or rough fronts. I love design. I love the package. I love fonts! I fuckin’ love them. I heart fonts! I break for French flaps. My kingdom for a satin ribbon!
Dearest darling readers of this blog: it’s up! The
Dear Fellow Blogger:
Dear Betsy,
Every year, I take my mother to synagogue. I would like to say that I am a good daughter, but I complain the entire time, roll my eyes. She says I don’t have to go, but I insist. She asks if I’ll go after she croaks: NO. The only auditorium I like to sit in for two hours is a movie house. Then there’s the lady who shakes your hand as you come in and says SHANA TOVA as if you’re deaf. She always asks, “are you still writing?” No, I say, god struck me dead.
I’ve been helping a writer with the ending of her book for a few weeks. I see so clearly the forest while she is hugging the trees. I’ve tried gentle persuasion, I’ve tried a firmer hand, I’ve tried to see it from her point of view. I’ve given structural and line edits. I’ve talked character motivation and reader expectation. I’ve tried to make one point: in the beginning is the end. I mean at least in this case. This is not a po-mo novel, this is not an experiment only using the letter “e.” Okay, how do I know I’m right? Experience. An exquisite sense of pacing, moment, language, and integration. Because I am a student of poetry and I believe the cup seeks the ball whether it wobbles and falls, or lands with a satisfying clink. I know from endings and I know from blue balls. I know how to twist in hot sheets with a symphony of a thousand locusts sawing outside.
Betsy Lerner 