• 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

Address It To My Wife

As you could have probably guessed, my “Ask Betsy” feature of the blog is getting a lot of traffic. However, most of the emails are not questions. Most readers are using it to pitch their projects. So, it’s sort of a slush pile/question box. At first, I was really pissed about it. It’s not at all difficult to find my agency email for chrissakes. Then I thought maybe I was being too uptight. I mean for fuck’s sake, who cares where a great project comes from, my agency email, my blog email, my ass. So I dutifully read through the queries hoping to discover the next Ordinary People (according to publishing lore, it was found in the slush).

So far, no luck. Needle, meet haystack. What does bother me is that I actually do answer all of these queries and then the person writes again and asks me to look at a nonfiction project once I explain that I’m not taking on fiction. Or, they ask me to review an alternative pitch, or recommend other agents, or give them a detailed critique of their writing. I could do all of these things, but I have to charge. A LOT.

I really love the questions and if you have one I’d love to hear from you. If you want to pitch your project, then please send it to Mail@dclagency.com and address it to my attention. But please understand that I will not respond as your lovable self-loathing blogger but rather as the hard-hearted bitch agent that I am.

When I Get That Feeling

When I was in the 11th grade, I read the Hite Report among a number of other books in a campaign to learn what I feared I might not experience. In my quest for “knowledge,” I learned a few things I had not known. At that time, I wrote a poem for my creative writing class and in it I used the word “masturbate.” Fair enough, except I spelled it “masterbate.”

My teacher, Mr. B., a man who did not look good in the double knits he favored, wrote the following in the margin, “Dr. Freud?” I had, by this time, also read enough of Freud to know what he meant. He called me into his office to talk about the poem. He had rectangular glasses that were always askew on his mostly bald head and a beard he trimmed as stiff as my father’s shoe shine brush.

Friends, why couldn’t the history teacher/tennis coach call me into his office and whisk me away in his lemon-colored TR6 the way he had a senior with long blond hair and a great stroke? Mr. B. wanted to know what I meant by the poem, by that word. I wish I could have screwed up my courage and said, “fuck you,” or “what do think I meant?” or “is that a boner in your tan polyester slacks?” but instead I just shrugged, mumbled, and left.

I am interested in stories of humiliation at the hands of writing teachers.

I Love All My Haters…Take 2

My top ten quarterly hate list:

1. The term “game changer” especially when referring to Avatar.

2. Criticizing a person for not being on Facebook. What’s it to you?

3. Calling oneself a “technophobe” or “Luddite” as if that’s interesting.

4. The proliferation of Greek yogurt

5. Canceling Law & Order. Where’s the outrage?

6. “Loving” your Kindle

7. J Crew

8. “I have that on my netflix cue,” as a response to talking about a movie.

9. In advance, the movie of Eat Pray Love.

10. That there are no fucking movies to see.

If there’s something I’ve missed, please let me know.

Sometimes the Lights All Shining on Me

An editor told me that pictures of cute animals increase traffic exponentially. I'm not proud.

If the best moment in an agent’s life is telling a writer that a publisher has made an offer on his or her book, the worse is when, about three weeks after publication, it becomes clear that without an act of god the book is likely to slip beneath the waves. How do you tell a drowning man there’s no raft?

The tour that didn’t materialize, reviews that didn’t appear, feature articles failed to showcase you at your desk, your cocker spaniels aloof on the couch. You had to throw your own publication party and your editor didn’t come. Or your agent for that matter.

I’ve never met an author who didn’t think that publishing a book would change his life. The problem is you never think it’s going to be a change for the worse. Some writers never recover from their book going unnoticed, some can’t take the negative reviews (JDS). Even those who get good attention can get stage fright. Can’t live up to or live down from expectations. And some, just some, can access their gift, harness their desire, and get back to work.

If you have been published, what was it like? Did you get rich, famous, laid? Did you get another contract? Did the book help you in achieving other career goals. Did your father stop calling you a bum? If you have not yet been published, what is your fantasy about what might happen. Don’t be shy.

I’m Not Happy When I Try To Fake It

What was your first literary orgasm? Roger W. Straus, venerable co-founder of FSG, claimed it was The Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock. I was always roll the trousers, eat the fuckin’ peach. I’m more of a Four Quartets gal myself. Today, at the psychopharmacologist’s, we were talking about the usual shit meaning my brain and my doctor quoted Eliot’s  “April is the cruelest month.” Well, I’m the cruelest patient and quoting one of the most famous lines of poetry in the world to make a “connection” to me is pathetic. Let’s agree: you won’t quote hideously famous lines of poetry to me (does so much really depend upon a red wheelbarrow?) and I won’t quote the DSM-IV to you.

Let’s get back to literary love. What was the first book that took you prisoner. That changed everything. I’m not saying it made you think that you had to write. Rather, that you could now live. For me, cliched as it sounds, Ariel. First love.

It’s Only Castles Burning

Are all writers narcy? Is it an occupational hazard or prerequisite for the job? I once dated a writer whose bedroom was lined with framed jackets of all his books. After  I slept with him, he loaded me up with copies of all of his books as I was leaving. Thanks!  How narcissistic are you and does it help or hurt? What does it really feel like to sit down with that notebook or computer? Just you, beautiful, terrible you? And what of those pages staring back?

Suggested reading:

What Narcissism Means to Me/Tony Hoagland

Advertisements for the Myself/Norman Mailer

Me/Katherine Hepburn

Food and Loathing/Betsy Lerner

Endless Rain Into a Paper Cup

I finished reading the fourth draft of a novel this weekend. It was amazing to see, even at this stage, where the writer held fast to her vision and where she was willing to make some radical changes. As well as many small changes. And how those small changes changed everything. I’ve always nursed a pet theory that writers exaggerate about how much they revise, how much they throw out, and how much editing they actually take. Put another way, there’s revising your work and playing with your food. Reader, this writer revised.

I was weeping at the end of this book. The power of it caught me off guard. Every moment in the novel found its fulfillment in the last seven pages. It was like watching a master chess player dominate the board in a series of swift, confident moves. What is the sound of a marble King falling upon a marble board. I reread those pages again, slower the second time, looking for the sleight of hand, the bouquet up her sleeve, the doves released. How the hell did she do it?

I will always be a sucker for this: for words to take me away from me as they console me, to make me forget myself and remind me who I am, to be trustworthy and manipulative, to seduce and destroy, to implicate and complicate, to come alive. When a writer does all this, and when I have had the privilege of clocking it, I am reminded of why, even after years of sweeping shit, I’ll never leave show business.

Let’s Play Twister, Let’s Play Risk

If you want excellent advice on how to write a pitch letter, go to Nathan Bransford’s blog, or to Janet Reid’s check list, or Rachelle Gardener’s guidelines. OR, come, sit back, and watch me light myself on fire. I’m going to write a mock query letter for a project I’ve abandoned as a way to describe the kinds of things I look for in a letter.

Salutation: Dear FIRST AND LAST NAME. (I don’t like too familiar and I don’t like too formal.)

The one sentence pitch: I hope you might be interested in my memoir, The Potter’s Apprentice, which describes a year of pottery lessons between an octogenarian teacher and his last student: me.

Alternatives: I met you last year at Breadloaf where we spoke briefly about my project, The Potter’s Apprentice. OR, I am a great fan of your clients X and Y, and hope my work might be of interest to you. OR, I read your blog religiously and, perhaps magically, imagine that you might take to my work.

The body: It had been nearly thirty years since I studied pottery and I didn’t miss it. But one afternoon, down a quiet side street in New Haven’s East Rock neighborhood, a sign caught my eye: Pottery Lessons. What followed was a year of classes with a master potter, an 82 year old whose craft dazzled me. Between fending off his advances, listening to his tales of the Blitz and mutliple marriages, and letting myself put the blackberry down for two hours and take in the clay, the darling garden, and the wheezing of an old hound, an unlikely friendship developed between the old potter and me. The book is also a meditation on marriage, on love, and on clay. Done right, I hope it will appeal to readers of (we need two good examples here).

The bio: As for me, I received an MFA from Columbia. I was the recipient of (fill in the blanks). My writing has appeared in x,y,z. You can read more about me on my website xxxo.

Many thanks for your time,

Betsy Lerner

ADD PHONE AND EMAIL

Be brutal: would you request the manuscript if you were an agent? What worked for you and what didn’t? How could it be improved upon?

All Because There Was No Driver On the Top

I’ve known authors over the years who balk at boiling down their book to a few sentences. “I”m not good at it,” they cry. I’m sympathetic; it’s extremely difficult to do, and may be impossible when you are in the middle of it. It takes time to figure out what a book is really about, as they are often about so many things. But it’s critical if you want to hook someone. Just imagine yourself at a party. You discover someone writes. You ask, what is your book about? They reply with a five minute plot description. I would guess that by the end of thirty seconds you find yourself wishing you were never born. Now imagine the writer responding, “It’s about a woman who kills her therapist.”

Can you you give me one sentence about your book?

How Can You Run When You Know?

Can you teach writing? Asked another way, is talent god-given or genetic? How much does hard work matter? Where does drive come from? Are some people hopeless? What is a gift? How important is publishing in the writing equation? Asked another way, is writing fulfilling enough on its own or is it only consummated when you see the words in print? And what is it, exactly, to see those words in print? What is the charge?

Why am I asking all of these questions?  Because every writer I know is bummed out, disgusted, or irate. And every agent I know is thinking about an exit strategy. And every editor I know is whistling a happy tune so no one will suspect she’s afraid. Because the bar for rudeness gets lowered every day. Because it’s all so fucking hard. But mostly because in the face of all this: tap, tap, tap. Tap, tap, tap. Music to my ears.