Six weeks away: rehab? India? face lift? depression? I’m so sorry I didn’t say goodbye, I had no idea I would be gone.  How the fuck have you all been? My life is roadkill and raven all at once. Yes,  you can pick yourself to death. Yes, you can fly into the windshield of a car flying by the highway. Yes, your black wings might span the length of a bridge and someone, years later, may find the nest. Rehab, India, face lift depression.

Where have you been, old friends?

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How do you get to Carnegie Hall? Structure, structure, structure. What is structure? How does it work? Do you figure it out before you write, or does it emerge as the storytelling takes shape. As an editor, I always felt that the structure suggested itself after 75 pages or so. By then all the major decisions have most likely been made: point of view, tense, passage of time. My boss believed you needed a blueprint before you set out, like an architect. That was always too uptight for me. The thing about structure is it has to be there, but not show.

How do you do it?

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Sometimes when you’re talking with a writer and you give feedback that a particular scene doesn’t work, the writer will say, in his or her defense, but that’s how it happened! To me, that’s like when you make a joke and nobody laughs, and you say: you had to be there!  We weren’t there. It’s your job to put us there. Please don’t tell me that’s how it happened. No one gives a shit how it happened. More to the point, how something happened has little to do with how well you render it on the page.  You have to find the words, phrases, nuances, descriptions. The tone, telling details, restrained alliteration, etc. to create the illusion. You are a puppeteer, a conductor, a director, a show maker. Please don’t tell me how it happened. I beg you.

Do you feel me.

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This is going to be pet peeve week (and just fyi, the term “pet peeve” is a pet peeve). What drives me nuts is when fiction writers use eye signaling to stand in for story or emotion. She looked at him, she glared, she glanced, she stared, she lowered her eyes, she batted her eyes, she looked away, she looked beyond him, she looked right through him, she smiled with her eyes (how the fuck, but never mind), she looked around, she looked down, she closed her eyes, she half-closed her eyes, she blinked, she rapidly blinked, she saw right through him, she looked inside him. Her eyes surveyed the room. Her eyes met his. She furtively looked. She locked eyes. She saw the world as if through a silver platter.

Can you add to the list?

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How do you write about pain? Hurt, loss, betrayal? How do you write about those experiences that gut you without going all cliche on your ass? How to retain control  of tone when everything is out of control? How do you bring to life a slight, a thousand tiny cuts, a snub? You must write, you must breathe. You get out of bed and wonder that you are out of bed, dragging a toothbrush across your teeth. Do you want to write a screed, a rant, an angry letter addressed to god?

How do you write about pain?

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I know people write diaries for themselves, but I still feel there is something vaguely performative about it. For instance, you don’t just write without any attention to style, word choice, tone, narrative. Sometimes I even use asides and dialogue. I don’t want anyone to read my diary, but I still give it some shape, some wit, some beginnings, middles and ends. Will someone find it after I’m dead? Toss it in a Hefty bag and that is that? Whenever I read the diary of a famous writer, I always feel as if he or she was writing it for me.

Who is your diary for?

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Writer is not even on the list. If you ask me what I do, I say literary agent. I say I work in publishing. I say I put out fires, I dash hopes and dreams, I makes wishes come true. I’m an editor. I’ll always be an editor. I do dishes, I iron, I clean and organize. I collect buttons. I enjoy fishing. Marigold are my favorite flower. If I was an animal, I would be an animal.

When people ask you what you do, how do you answer?

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When I was young, I only wrote when I was sad. I wrote a lot. Now, I mostly like to write out of anger and revenge and competition. Some people don’t think that’s healthy. I have no use for them. Writing is not: therapeutic, healing, consoling or cathartic. Writing is not a hobby. I recently asked if I would give a “journaling” workshop. NO. It isn’t even a word. Okay, here’s my journaling course: buy a notebook and write mean things in it. Every day.

Are you moody?

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This is about being in the homestretch, seeing the end, the pieces falling into place, the yolk hitting the pan, the sizzle, your eyes ringed and dry, your fingernails bloody, your legs alligator handbags, pencil, pencil, pencil. You used to have eyebrows, you used to have friends, you used to answer your phone, you used to sleep. The last three pages, the last page, the last line of dialogue, the last touching image. Fuck all.

What’s it like finishing your project?

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Spoiler alert: I continue to hate, including to hate the term, “spoiler alert.” I hate the barista at Starbucks near my office (and I hate the word barista). Every morning when I ask for decaf, she says, it will have to be a pour over the way the salesman at the shoe store used to squeeze my foot and say extra wide like it was my fault. I haven’t been blogging for a few reasons. I’ve been writing in my diary every day and that’s a time suck. I’ve weaned myself of late night television. I’ve been making a valiant effort to go to the gym. I can’t stop cleaning like in the old PMS days. And I’m lost.

Does the lord help those who help themselves? Spoiler alert:

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