Watching a documentary about Miles Davis. When he was a boy, he’d take his horn into the woods and imitate birdsong. When I was a girl I’d pull a blanket, a flashlight, notebook, pen, and snacks into a crawlspace beneath the stairs and pretend I was Anne Frank.
Do you have a seminal childhood memory that connects to your life as a writer?
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If your local indie bookstore is still fulfilling orders, please buy a book from them today. Buy a whole stack if you’re able. Our stores are taking a huge hit over this crisis, just imagine how it would feel if they folded. Here’s my favorite store. I’ve spent hours there browsing, had readings and taught writing workshops. The owner Roxanne Coady is a force of nature. Her store is the heartbeat of our community.
What’s your favorite local indie?
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When I wanted to go to London for my junior year abroad, my mother sensed that I was trying to run away from my problems. I know this because she said, “You’re trying to run away from your problems.” Somehow I finagled my way there and for the first time in my life I had my own room. A single in a dormitory in the south of London. I put up exactly one poster. I had my shelf of books (lots of Thomas Hardy). And most nights, I holed up with a novel, a bottle of cheap red wine and a sleeve of peanuts. I nursed my depression in my happy cell.
What did your mother say?
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Head writing. I started another brilliant short story today while walking my dog. In my mind’s eye, it was in The New Yorker Font. The dialogue, if I do say so, was spectacular. Crisp and funny and surprising. My first sentence was sublime. And the whole thing just flowed. The further I got, on my walk, the more I wished for a pen to write it all down. It was that good. By the time I got home, it was gone.
Is head writing by definition delusional? Or just me?
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Most writers question the value of their work on a fairly regular basis. During times of crisis, it can seem even more inconsequential. How do you sit down at your keyboard when an ice skating rink has been converted into a morgue? When so many people are dying alone? I’m quite sure I don’t have answers. I only know that writing is what has always been made me feel sane, less alone and myself.
How are you handling this crisis?
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So great to hear from you all from the cattle farms of Oregon to Washington Square Park. What a time. I am pushing myself to write three hours every day from 5:30 to 8:30. I keep telling myself that this will be over and I will regret having lost so much time to low-grade anxiety and depression. I can’t vouch for my writing. For all I know it’s All Work And No Play Makes Jack a Dull Boy. But that beats three hours of CNN. Is it me or Anderson Cooper. Please keep writing.
What are you working on?
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Dear Readers of this Blog:
I apologize for being so absentee over the last months. I just wanted to touch base now and see how everyone is faring during this crisis. Hoping that you and your families are out of harm’s way. I’ve missed you all. Love, Betsy
Please let us know where you are, how you are.
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I’m on the fence. Sometimes I think that all the criticism and discouragement I got from my parents made me ever more determined to write. The first time my father read a poem of mine in a literary magazine, he threw it on the floor. Threw is strong. He flicked it. When I told him I had gotten into an MFA program, he begged me to get an MBA. When my mother read my memoir, she said it was a pack of lies! Alright then. Other times I think that love and encouragement are all that matters. Love and encouragement. Would I even trust it? Would it not gross me out?
What defines your writing life?
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When I was little, I used to love to do impressions. Mostly of grown ups, Hebrew school teachers, cashiers, bank tellers. If I made my family laugh, I’d keep going with the impression, sometimes even losing control, unable to break character long after everyone stopped laughing. It was then my mother would scold me with the reprimand that shut it all down: you just don’t know when to quit. To this day when I push something or someone too far, I hear my mother’s damning words: you just don’t know when to stop. The thing is I know when to stop. I don’t keep going because I don’t know when to stop. I keep going because I’m a relentless bastard. Because if I can get two laughs, I want four. Because I want to get under your skin. Trust me, this relates to writing.
Do you feel me?
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Click here.
Sometimes I think a meteor could strike the earth and wipe out mankind with the exception of my mother’s Bridge club — Roz, Bea, Bette, Rhoda, and Jackie — five Jewish octogenarians who continue to gather for lunch and Bridge on Mondays as they have for over fifty years. When I set out to learn about the women behind the matching outfits and accessories, I never expected to fall in love with them. This is the story of the ladies, their game, and most of all the ragged path that led me back to my mother.
