• Forest for the Trees
  • THE FOREST FOR THE TREES is about writing, publishing and what makes writers tick. This blog is dedicated to the self loathing that afflicts most writers. A community of like-minded malcontents gather here. I post less frequently now, but hopefully with as much vitriol. Please join in! Gluttons for punishment can scroll through the archives.

    If I’ve learned one thing about writers, it’s this: we really are all alone. Thanks for reading. Love, Betsy

If I Listened Long Enough to You

This morning at around 8:30, the phone rang. I answered it. A breathless woman was on the line, “I’ve just written something, what should I do?”

“Um, what have you written?”

“I don’t know,” she nearly screamed back, “I just wrote it.”

Normally, I would have already gotten rid of this call, but the sheer insanity of it was perversely attractive to me. For a moment, I thought it might be my friend Gina playing a practical joke on me. But before I could say anything, the caller cried, “Can you help me?” as if she were in need of medical attention.

Again I tried, “Well, I need to know what you’ve written.”

“And then I should call you?”

“Yes,”  I said,” when you’ve got something finished.”

Now, she calmed down considerably and thanked me profusely. “I see, I see, okay, thank you for your time.”

What does this say besides a) I need a help  b) Our  assistant needs to get in earlier  c) There is something newborn about writing

Now come and join the living, it’s not so far from you

My daughter has three outfits spread out on her bed. This can only mean one thing: we’re officially excited and anxious about going back to school tomorrow. Dear Reader, I could lay out three thousand outfits tonight and I don’t think I’d be able to cure what ails me. Of course, everything is fine. Better than fine. I have some exquisite projects to sell this month, The Hose and I finished a really solid first draft of our pilot, a stalled novelist just sent me pages that rocked, the revision for Forest for the Trees is coming out in a month, and I actually found a couple of hours today to get in the hammock with the Franzen and look at the sky.

Do you ever have the feeling when you look at a person that you see them at age seven or nine? You see the child in the adult? Or as you’re walking the dog and looking at the houses, you feel your heart could break for all the shrubbery? What of your own tray for salt, pepper, olive oil, and vinegar? What of your own kitchen window with its two clay birds, one from Italy, one your daughter made and painted orange? Do you ever think about the exact way in which people put food in their mouths and chew? I can’t believe we dress ourselves. I can’t believe we have cars! I can’t believe people still make things.  My gray dress with the peter pan collar. I have one picture of my father holding me. I have forty notebooks. I have a pharmacy in my head. I want to wake up with a hard on. I want to wake up in a city that doesn’t sleep. I want to wear something spectacular.

What about you? How are you feeling?

Who Can Take a Sunrise

THIS JUST IN FROM PUBLISHERS MARKETPLACE:

Oprah Will Resume Book Club On September 17–And No, It’s Not FREEDOM

“Just under a year after selecting Uwem Akpan’s SAY YOU’RE ONE OF THEM, Oprah Winfrey is ready to pick another book for her audience to read. Newtonville Books blogged that they were notified by a Macmillan sales rep of the impending announcement, to air on September 17, when the Oprah-stickered edition will release.

Let’s face it, the Oprah pick is the grown up equivalent of the Wonka gold ticket. The industry is atwitter with expectation. We’re talking a couple million copies and that’s just domestic. I’ve almost never met an author, even the most sane and sober, who didn’t at some point betray his intelligence by suggesting that he would be a terrific guest on Oprah. Except for what’s his name. Oprah is hard and wet. She is fat and thin. She is straight and gay. She is everything and everything is me. Do you remember when she started to give Phil Donahue a run for his rug? For me, friends, it was a thrill to see a hugely overweight woman demand so much share. Sure, she’s made some mistakes, but the girlfriend sells our hotcakes. Long may she wave.

And now, my question for today. If you got the gold ticket, the tap from Lady O, what do you think it would bring: money, readers, fame, disaster, pussy, time, ocean, booze, or a new roof. What would you want? What would you get?


Am I Rough Enough

My client Justin Peacock published a terrific piece in today’s Daily Beast : “As literary fiction has become increasingly introverted, it has largely turned its back on plot, and in doing so it also turned its back on truly engaging with contemporary American life. The decline of the importance of plot—a resistance to the appeal of the sort of plotting that drives not just Dickens’ novels but, for that matter, the plays of Shakespeare or even ancient classics like the Iliad—leads inevitably to a failure of novels to engage with their culture…The novel is the only major storytelling form in our democratic culture where out-dated and counter-productive distinctions between high and low, between genre and literary, still exist. No one in their right mind would dismiss The Shield or The Wire’s (on which Price, Pelecanos and Lehane all worked, and of which Price is again openly acknowledged as the major literary inspiration) place as two of television’s greatest achievements because they are crime stories, anymore than a film critic would try to insist that Martin Scorsese is a second-tier filmmaker because so many of his movies are about organized crime. But the novel was always meant to be a popular medium, to be the realm of storytellers. By making itself too rarefied, the literary novel has deprived itself of the necessary oxygen of powerful plotting and engagement with society.”

If you have a moment, check out the whole piece. Agree? Disagree? Bite me.

Better yet, read Blind Man’s Alley this weekend. Don’t trust me, check this out.

May You Bloom and Grow

This post is a little out of keeping with the blog’s usual dyspeptic take on life and publishing, and I apologize if I offend anyone. But today, dear readers, I am in love with my clients. No, I am in awe of them, inspired by them, grateful for them. And I’m not just talking about a certain someone whose life story garnered FIVE EMMYS on Sunday night including best actress and best movie made for television.

I’m talking about the ones who are toiling away without a whole lot of recognition, or working through crushing depression, or books that haven’t sold. I am so moved by the stories that are unfolding, sometimes even surprising the authors themselves. I am blown away by a few projects that have come in far more ambitious and accomplished than promised, and those who are wrestling their editorial letters to the ground, unclear who will prevail. And unexpected moments of politeness, or sweetness, or silliness with a writer long hardened by the process.

I am grateful for being the old woman who lives in this shoe, with this unruly pack of artists and thieves. Tomorrow, back to bile, blood-letting and general ill will.

The Painted Ponies Go Up and Down

My third favorite magazine arrived today, Poets & Writers. When I was writing poetry, I lived for the Classified section where all the contests were listed. The new issue has the 2011 MFA ranking. Guess who’s still coming to dinner at number #1? I-O-WA. How do they do it? Year after year? And this is in fiction, nonfiction, and poetry. It’s the grand slam of wordsmithing. And what of my alma, Columbia? Twenty-fucking-five. Oh, how the mighty fall. And the poetry is ranked #47. Mother of god.

#2 – University of Michigan at Ann Arbor

#3- University of Texas at Austin

#10- Cornell at Ithaca

#50 University of Nevada in Las Vegas

Do these rankings matter? Do they help you on the job market? Getting published? I think the best thing you can hope to accomplish is to a) not go broke  b) find a bff/first reader  c) find a mentor who doesn’t eventually turn on you. What I discovered when I got my MFA was that I was a better editor than writer; at least that’s what I surmised. I also learned a kind of snobbery in taste. I made a great friend. And I studied with some greats like Denis Johnson and Richard Howard and Bill Matthews.

It’s an old question, but I’d love to hear if you feel your MFA program was worth it and what # ranking would you give it? If you don’t have an MFA, what are your thoughts about going to school to write

Baby, You’re no Good

“We delude ourselves in the appraisal of our own works and in our perpetual misappraisal of the works of others. See you at the Nobel, writers say, as one might say: see you in Hell.”  Roberto Bolano, 2666

What do we really mean when we tell ourselves that we suck? Do we also think we are great with equal passion? Does it mean we are without talent, ego, will, drive, passion, or imagination. Is it soothing to say it: I suck. Only  you don’t really mean it. Could you go on if you really believed it? Or how about: This is shit. What does that mean?  We tell ourselves a million different things all day long in relation to our writing. For me there’s nothing worse than getting up after a few hours and thinking something is good. Wait, scratch that. For me there is nothing worse than getting up after a few hours and thinking something is shit. Back up: for me there is nothing worse than wasting a few hours examining the pores on my face. What can I say: writing is looking in a mirror, down a well, through a forest that smells. It’s bread and cheese, it’s the lower lumbar crying, the balls itchy beyond belief. How do you know if you’re good, if you’re work is good? If you’re on the cover of Time Magazine? How many, even then, cry:  am I good? Do I suck? Is this shit? And does it matter, I mean beyond the check clearing as our beloved A. would say? Lower your standards! Raise high roof beam, carpenter! See you in Hell!

Do you suck?

More, More, More How Do You Like It, How Do You Like It

Cougar I

Highlight of my day: a fuzzy faced man-boy at Starbucks took my order. I asked if he could grind the pound of coffee I was buying. He said, “How would you like me to grind it?” I said, “I would like you grind it really hard.” No, I said, “for press.” And he said, “French Press?” And I said, “yes.” And he said, “Nice.”  Yes, I’m not above a little cougarity once in a while. And yes, a little validation for my coffee method goes a long way.

Cougar II

Low point of my day: I had the kind of conversation today with a publisher that makes you want to pull all the books off your shelves, make an enormous pile in the middle of the floor and light a match. Then you can strip off all your clothes and dance around the fire until it, too, consumes you.

Cougar III

Medium point of the day: I finally got started writing those damn letters asking friends and acquaintances for help promoting the book. Why do they all sound like barf on melba toast? Is the phony banter completely transparent or partially? Should I not be offering lap dances? Could I possibly be this perky? IDK.

P.S.  Thanks so much for all the great ideas and invitations that came through after my brazen bid for help with self-promotion. I also got some exciting emails and invites through my askbetsy box. Thank you thank you thank you.

p.s.s Cougar III is for you — you know who are.

Ain’t Too Proud to Beg, Sweet Darlin’

My new look

One of my back to school projects involves trying to promote the revised edition of The Forest for the Trees which is coming out in early October. Here’s what I’m doing:

  • Writing personal letters to every bookseller and person in the media I know
  • Sending an e-card the publisher created to the heads of writing programs, writing conferences, writing/agenting bloggers
  • Supposedly setting up a Facebook fan page
  • Sending a finished book to writing program directors in the tri-state area with the hope of getting speaking gigs
  • Writing a spec essay for Modern Love (I have a rough draft)

THe publisher is also doing a big mailing and some giveaways. I’m going to do some giveaways from my blog, but I have to figure out a contest of some sort.  I’m also supposed to tweet more, but  I’m hoping Twitter falls off the earth before I get around to composing any more 90 character salvos from the dark side.

I devote a whole chapter in Forest for the Trees to self-saboteurs to self-promoters. When I first published the book I was a SS. Now, I’m happy to report that I’m a card carrying SP. So if anybody out there has any thoughts about how I can turn Forest For the Trees into THe HElp, let me know. ALSO, if you can get your local reading groups, colleges, brownie troops or kennel clubs to invite me to read, talk, video chat or lap dance, please let me know as well. THanks!

Or just tell us what’s been effective for you promoting your work.

Gee, It’s Good To Be Back Home

Peeps! How are you? I missed you. Erin, thank you for holding down the fort and keeping up the stats. If I may start complaining right out of the gate: I didn’t get a chance to read my pleasure books, Tinkers and Henrietta Lacks. Instead, I dutifully read my manuscripts. Meow.

I was treated to dover sole with my British agents; these are the people who sell UK rights for our US authors. We’ve been working together for 25 years. I also saw my oldest friend in the business — another publishing vet of 25 years, a brilliant editor, and can I just say how impressed I am with the way Brits use utensils.

I also stopped into every bookstore I passed including Lutyens and Rubenstein. I met the owners years ago when we were all editors. Now, they are also agents, but they also just opened this magnificent shop. I wanted very single book just because of how brilliantly they were juxtaposed on the tables. But I didn’t come back to start in again on the funeral known as publishing.

Well, we all know, September means back to selling. Most agents hold their fire  for these last summer months and then lock and load for the fall. Everyone has that back to school, freshly sharpened, brand new binder smell. If we have some editor lurkers, tell us about being on your side of the desk as the projects descend like duck flap.

What about you guys, the writers, is it time to get serious? Buckle down. What does Fall signal?