I used to have a friend called Raymond. He saw me through a lot of heartache. One of his standard soliloquies was about how great love wasn’t for every day. Everyday you could reasonably expect: a cup of coffee, the newspaper, a good dump, etc. But great love, well, it was going to take its time. This is true for finding great authors and projects.
When I left one publishing house for another, my boss pulled me over and said, if you remember anything, remember this: patience. Was this the generic advice he gave all young editors trying to make their mark, or did he see the mania in my eyes? Either way, it felt like fuddy duddy advice, be cautious, belt and suspenders. Didn’t getting anywhere require daring, action, taking a leap?
What happens when months go by and you don’t see anything you like. I’ve often compared this predicament to the lowering of sexual standards in a dive bar after 2:00 a.m. This is okay for a one night stand, but can be disastrous when you take on a book that you never quite believe in, acquired in a fit desperation. This happened to me once when I was an editor, and it only had to happen once.
How do you know when it’s the real thing?
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Remember the moment in BIG when Tom Hanks presents his ideas for a new toy and his jealous colleague played by John Heard snarks back, “I don’t get it,” in an attempt to short circuit the presentation. Of course, it backfired because this is a feel good movie.
A fiction writer recently asked me if she should take a poetry class, sort of to jump start her writing. I thought it was an interesting idea. Look, poetry is always a good idea. But, I thought, there must be others: What about a violin class, or snow boarding? What about having an affair with a boarding instructor who is missing part of his arm? What about shoplifting? What about staying in your house until you’ve eaten everything. Hello, smoking! Remember how well that used to work? Hitachi magic wand. Go to therapy. Get on the couch. Do it. Talk about how much you want to blow your therapist, how you really don’t hate your parents, how everything reminds you of something you ate. Am I forgetting anything? Work in a bookstore, volunteer somewhere, trompe l’oeil the garage! Clean! Throw away five hefty garbage bags full of stuff. Pick your face, pluck your eyebrows, moisturize. Read a book that is 1,000 pages long. Cut up your credit cards. Stop talking. Write in long hand! (Betty Lerner is a big believer in the long hand!). Get up at 5:00 am. Just get up. Or, stay up all night. Become delirious. Get a dog. Get a divorce. Get a physical. Use index cards. (Big believer in index cards!) Remember: no one cares if you write. Not god, not the angels, not the editors who turn tricks on 42nd Street. In fact, some people would prefer it if you didn’t write, would sooner see you wriggle on a hook for your whole feckin’ life than reel one in. What could be more liberating? Do it precisely because nobody gives a shit. Because language has not yet begun to go bald. And you are a star.
Should you know your competitor’s work or avoid it at all costs? Should you sleep with the enemy? When I was working on The Forest for the Trees, there was one book that terrified me and I stayed far away from it. It was everywhere, it was beloved, and duh it was about writing. It had the greatest title, the kind of title that appealed on every level, and a sublime jacket, the kind of jacket that makes you want to own it, and only suits the book more after you’ve read it. Everyone seemed to have read it and everyone loved the motherfucker. Of course, I’m talking about Bird By Bird. I knew if I read it, I would never write my book. The shadow it cast was too large. I finally read it years later and here’s a newsflash, it’s wonderful. As it turns out, I really didn’t have to worry since Lamott’s book is about writing, and mine is about self-loathing. Phew.
Took our intern to lunch today. She’s really smart and lovely. She’s working for us two days a week and at an ultra hip lit mag two days a week. They may be cooler than we are, but do they sit around and listen to the Mel Gibson tapes? Does Patti Smith drop by their offices and sing a few songs? Do they order in take-out from Grammercy Tavern and talk about books while eating foie gras and french fries? No, I didn’t think so.
Our fair lass has one question for me: to be or not to be. To work in the book business or not to work in the book business. Will it hurt my writing? Will it help my career? In one question, our dear intern has nailed my life’s conflict. And I believe many who work in publishing. I mean you’re not toiling on editorial row because you want to be a lead guitarist, or a sous chef, or a hfm. I could be wrong, and I’d love it if a lurking editor or two chimed in with a comment, but I think almost everyone in publishing has dreams of writing. And many have gone on to publish.
Great quote in Harvey Pekar’s obit, “I always wanted praise and I always wanted attention; I won’t lie to you…I wanted people to write about me, not me about them.”
I apologize for posting late. My third floor attic office isn’t air conditioned, and I couldn’t face the stairwell let alone broasting up there when my daughter had just started “Dear John” On Demand with Channing Tatum, Tatum Channing, Tatum O’Neil, frankly who cares so long as he never speaks and keeps his shirt off.
Betsy Lerner 