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
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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.
THIS JUST IN FROM PUBLISHERS MARKETPLACE:
My client Justin Peacock published a terrific piece in today’s
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
My third favorite magazine arrived today,
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!



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.



