I once went out a bathroom window during a blind date. Said date had a cockatoo and exactly one book in his apartment, prominently displayed on his coffee table: U R WHAT YOU DRIVE. He lived on the ground floor in “rustic style” condo development that boasted big bathroom windows. I actually sacrificed a leather jacket I had recently bought at Loehmann’s and left it on his “coat rack” because I couldn’t face him, the cockatoo, or the book. (In all honesty, the coat, like most stuff you buy at Loehmann’s, wasn’t that great so “sacrifice” is a reach.)
Another blind date, a mid town bar, turns out the guy was, shock of all shocks, writing a book. It was called “Coattails.” And, yes, it was about how he got ahead by riding on other people’s coattails.
Next up, a naturalist I had a wicked crush on. He was cute and mean, a toxic combo for a girl with low self-esteem and high expectations. I made of fool of myself for around six months while he kept taunting me with pages that never materialized. And, yes, pages is a euphemism.
A boy I loved in Senior year of high school resurfaces after twenty years with a…manuscript. And to think of those nights on the hood of my Monte Carlo, reading Rilke and talking about suicide. What does it come down to: a manuscript about his dog.
And so it goes. What is the point of this post? IDK. Just a nostalgic rainy evening to steep in some of life’s dreamy miseries and indignities. Got any?
Filed under: The End of the World as We Know It | 24 Comments »
I’ve been whining for a while about being stuck with my writing. Pathetic. Finally, had a breakthrough over the last week (or maybe it’s my meds talking), but I feel that I’ve taken the project a few big steps forward. Mother may I? Yes, you may. And in the middle of all this new writing came the title for the screenplay as if on a silver platter with a great roast upon it. The title not only galvanized me into figuring out what the motherfucker is really about, but it also suggested a new structure, which is like getting a new engine in a car.
I ruin another morning yet again. Downstairs, my husband reads Delillo’s new novel. He’s been up since dawn, reading, making notes in his tiny Catholic trained script. He is completely energized by some idea or sentence and he wants to talk about it. I make a face that can only be interpreted as: you’re not going to make me talk about writing. He wonders aloud how I do this for a living given how much contempt I have for most conversations about writing. He says he’ll never bring it up again. I say, good.
Hi Betsy,
No more hiding behind email. When I have to have a talk, I’m picking up the god-damn phone. In the first place, you find out what the person is thinking, feeling, you can gauge their reaction. Plus you grow balls when you don’t sit there like big pussy typing out some apology or avoiding a confrontation.
Betsy Lerner 