Do you ever regret anything you’ve written, wish you hadn’t published it, or even just shared it with another person? Now that my daughter is a teen, I sometimes gulp hard to think of what she will think of me if she reads my memoir. I was quite cavalier when I wrote it. My motto: secrets did the most damage. It was the stuff under the carpet that kills. Now, the carpet’s looking mighty fine.
Please tell me about literary regrets. The more self-flagellating and recriminating the better.
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I’ve been trying to write about something that happened two weeks ago. I was in therapy and I did something I’ve never done before: I told my shrink what my screenplay was “about.” Actually, I told her the plot, more specifically about the two main characters and how I couldn’t write what I had planned about them. Just as I said it, I knew for the first time what the story was really about, who these characters were. I had led myself right back into the central drama of our family (once again) even as I believed I was writing about entirely different creatures.
Exhausted. Fell asleep on the train. All my manuscripts slipped off my lap and on to the floor. The woman next to me didn’t flinch or shift her legs as I frantically gathered my pages (today’s haul: four new chapters by a client, 50 pages of a project my business partner wants a second opinion on, four prospective proposals, and two contracts). The bitch who won’t move is immersed in a library copy of Debbie Macomber’s novel, A Good Yarn. (The head line on Debbie’s website is, “Wherever you are, Debbie takes you home.”) Debbie, can you take me home?
Dear Betsy
Came to NYC to go to BEA parties: Google, Bookforum, Tin House. Wore my one frock, high heels (and if you know me this is absurd), and a touch of make-up. It was 92 degrees a full moon refused to focus above the Chrysler Building. I had my game face on when something happened, not a panic attack exactly, just a flush of anxiety tinged with desperation and petulance. Did I really want to go? Who would I see? Should show my face. Why? And so it goes, a revolving door of doubt, immaturity, ennui. Am I part of this world? Am I a part of any world? The funny thing is, I always have a really good time at parties. I suspect that when your expectation is dread, nothing can be so terrible.
Yes, I am aware that the Book Expo is on. Do I care? Yes and no. When I was a little girl, my dad took me to lumber trade shows and I loved them. Especially the displays of knobs and pulls, hundreds of them. Racing down the aisles in search of candy and any free crap we could get our hands on like levelers and mini tool boxes (which I still have).
Betsy Lerner 