Betsy Lerner

Whenever a writer asks me if he or she should quit working on a manuscript that has stalled out, I feel like I’m being set up. It’s like asking someone if you’re pretty. Of course, I’m sympathetic with anyone who is getting royally fucked by the writing process. But I want to say: Yes! Quit!  Do not pass Go. Trash the whole fucking thing! Liberate yourself. Move on! Move on! But of course I don’t say that. I suggest putting it aside for a while, or making an outline, or using index cards. Trust me friends, index cards are a euphemism for dead on arrival. Sometimes it’s a mercy to put a manuscript down. That’s what desk drawers are for! But the reality is you can’t tell anyone when to quit. Nor should you. Writing, at best, is folly. So what difference, really, does is make? If you’re miserable you could be on to something really amazing.

When do you put a piece of writing out of its misery?

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I saw a post today on FB about an assistant editor who got a job as a full editor at one of the big five publishers. She was ecstatic.  I knew her because she was the assistant on The Bridge Ladies and she was amazing. Calm, efficient, encouraging, and always in a good mood. I could count on her to take care of any detail no matter how small. And to indulge any insecurity of mine, no matter how huge. I am so happy for her. But I am also so nostalgic for that moment in my life. My Ann Taylor suit and off white shell. My little loafers and Coach Classic Duffle. It was the most expensive thing I owned and took six months to pay off on my credit card. I acquired the first books that would put me on the map editorially and I’m still exceedingly proud of them and honored to have worked on them: Thinking in Picture by Temple Grandin, Autobiography of a Face by Lucy Grealy, Train Go Sorry by Leah Cohen and Prozac Nation by Elizabeth Wurtzel. I had my first office with a window!! I bought coffee and a bagel with a million anonymous New Yorkers in the deli below the office that once had been the great Max’s Kansas City.

What was your first job you really cared about?

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My great friend, mentor and client has a new book coming out in ten days. As always, working beside her is a master class in tireless intensity, aesthetic devotion and a kind of literary and spiritual alchemy. Words in air. Beguiling sentences. Unexpected humor and a well of sorrow. But always at the center of her work is an optimist insistence that a better world can be realized if it can be imagined. The Year of the Monkey is an agitated, spirited reckoning with a year of wandering, loss, discovery, conversations with inanimate objects and figments of the imagination. It’s 2018 when a lot went wrong and few things exploded with light.

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Over the summer, one of my best and oldest friends (and clients) took his life. Though he suffered with addiction over the course of his life, I never suspected that he would end it. On the contrary, he was always reminding me when I was going dark that something wonderful could be just around the corner. Right now, it’s hard to fathom that corner without him. George was exceptional in every way. As a writer, as an editor, wit, and friend. I always said he was the most wicked and kindest person I knew. His blue pencil was fierce, exacting, demanding. He was after excellence and seriousness and razzle-dazzle. He put many writers on the map and the bestseller list. As a writer, he was elegant, funny, always pushing himself to make the sentences ring. He loved his readers, wanted to please them. Spoke at hundreds of books clubs and library events and readings. If they built it, he would come. And every time I went, I watched him take the room of people and put them squarely in the palm of his hand. Treat yourself to a copy of Bettyville and hang out with my friend for a few hours. You’ll be richly rewarded.

Love you, George.

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I love rainy days. I’m a writer, for fuck’s sake. Who the hell needs a beautiful day to make you feel like a freak supreme for staying indoors. I don’t swim, garden, play sports including croquet. I take walks, that’s about it. And if I didn’t have a dog, I would hardly do that. I’m not interested in balance, in self-care, in yoga, meditation, or anything vegan. I want to type and go to movies, preferably alone. Being alone feels good. It’s relaxing. It’s the quieting of the unquiet mind, the portal to a long slide, it’s the crawlspace beneath the stairs, and a fortress of crumbling cinder blocks completely covered with moss. 

Do you crave being alone?

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I’m sure I’ve talked about this before, but it’s on my mind. In his diary of making his first movie, Spike Lee said that whenever he talked about a project too much it wouldn’t happen. Whenever I succumb and tell a person what I’m working on, I feel ashamed later. What am I trying to prove? I always feel better when I don’t yap about my projects. It’s superstitious on one level, but it’s more than that. It’s about honoring the sanctity of your inner world.  Bam!

Are you a yapper or the silent type when it comes to your                                                          work?

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I spoke tonight at a writer’s conference. I hate breaking hearts and you can’t talk about trying to get published without invoking hardship and pain. How do you find an agent? How do you write a query letter? Do you need a social media presence? Everyone says they love my book, but no one wants to take it. It’s like one of those climbing walls where you get so far and then fall with no one to catch you. I try to be honest and entertaining, but I saw at least three people nodding out. I told myself that they had been in workshops all day or were shooting heroin.

What would you like to ask me. I’ll try to answer.

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