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?
Look, I more than know my way around a mood swing, but is it part of an artistic temperament or is it just bad fucking luck? I know so many writers who struggle with depression and see how the depression powerfully colors the way they feel about their work. And sometimes stops them completely and sometimes for months and years. Many fear that medication with change or mute them. Is there truth to that? The suffering I’ve seen for untreated illness strikes me as far worse and sometimes fatal.
I once met a woman who had cancer who said she was grateful for the cancer because it taught her how to appreciate life. I’ve never, not once, felt grateful for being bi-polar. Does it make me more sensitive, empathic, attuned? No. It makes me bi-polar. Full stop. And I’ve lost years out of my life and I fear it like the bogey man under the stair. It never goes away. I only have learned to manage it better. Just this week, a publisher commented on how even-keeled I seem. High praise indeed for a girl jacked up on Lithobid. I am stable and every day I thank the pharmaceutical company.
What about you, moody blues? How are you managing out there? If you need help are you getting it? How does your mood affect your writing?
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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.
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.
Betsy Lerner 