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
Dearest Readers of this Blog: I have been cheating on you. I’m not going to lie. I’ve been seduced by TikTok, BookTok specifically. A year ago, people in publishing were saying that it’s the only social media to move the needle (the sales needle). So while most people turned their noses up at it, and Colleen Hoover, I decided to check it out. I’m astonished at what I’ve found, dancing cowboys and kitten videos aside, there is a vibrant community of book lovers who read in every genre, including classics. It’s a way to discover what is popular and why. A lot of people are reading out there, and sharing their thoughts, and creating communities. I’m definitely a newbie, but when I make a video that people respond to, I have to admit it’s thrilling. If you’re interesed, check me out @betsylerner
In other news, my debut (!) novel has gone into production and will come out next year in November. My editor has kicked my ass seven ways from Sunday and I’m beyond humbled and grateful. Not only have I improved by book as a result of her painstaking work, I feel as I’ve become a better editor myself.
To anyone who is still hanging around the Lerner Home for Wayward Children, I hope you’re okay. I hope you’re bringing a writing project to fruition or starting a new one, or just writing in your diary, or a long letter to a friend. If you’re out there, catch us up. xo, Betsy
Even though I’m an agent, I still do a great deal of editing for my clients. Lately, I’ve been working with a writer I’ve known for over 25 years. By now, it’s like we’re an old married couple. I know her strengths and weakness. She knows my pet peeves and prejudices. We bicker about the same things, agree about the same things. Sometimes we don’t have to say anything at all. When I suggest a more apt word, move a paragraph, change the tense, she’s delighted. Calls me a genius. A small halo lights up over head. No change is too small. And I am thrilled when she takes a chance, makes a leap, says “look ma, no hands” with a string of sentences that blows my mind. In the end, it’s the dance. The call and response. The trust that if I know you’ll catch me, I am free to fall.
I took an actual vacation — a long delayed (Covid) 30th anniversary trip. My husband and I both have demanding publishing jobs, and spend a lot of vacation time apart to write. It was nice to know that we still get along, hiking and talking about our writing projects, our life choices to work inside the industry and not pursue writing full time, the need for structure and a regular paycheck, the creature comforts, wondering about the road less travelled, lamenting our cowardice, grateful for our jobs and the rich life working with writers and books.
I’ve been working on my editor’s notes for a month with ten days to go. She has nipped, tucked, corrected, questioned, prodded, challenged, and inspired me. Word choice, cliches, active verbs, varying sentence structure, wordiness, tightening, extraneous details, point of view. After 30 years of editing, I’m humbled by her work. If a sentence, sentiment, or thought is off by a hair, she questions it. She calls me out on all my bad habits. She has also encouraged me to take more chances. I am almost ready.
It’s official. I’m a simile slut. I don’t know when to stop. If I can compare something to anything else, I will. Given the chance to use “like” or “as” I’m all over that shit. Look, I spent 40K on a poetry MFA, what the hell else am I gonna do. My editor (yes, ahem, working on ye olde first novel, lol) has pointed it out, exasperation all over the margin notes. An early reader also commented on the PLETHORA ( a word I hate that reminds me of lady parts) of similes: “If the simile is not precise, it fails to do the job it was meant to do and draws attention to the artifice that’s taking place.” Busted. So true. The simile must thread the needle, you know, the one in the haystack. I’m off my fucking rocker with this revision. Please stop me before I kill again.
My editor sent my quote unquote novel back with her notes. It’s a true, old school line-edit. Be still my heart. Her pencil is everywhere: tone, structure, point of view, word choice, continuity, transitions. There is nothing like being in the hands of a real editor. The careful attention, the big picture, the perspective. You know my level of gratitude is enormous. That’s not to say that I didn’t plummet to the depths today, just facing how bad the bad parts are, the rookie mistakes, the wanton abuse of semi-colons. The sheer wordiness (which I had deluded myself into thinking was my “voice”). I’m gonna get a good night’s sleep and hit it again in morning. The one guarantee about writing: One day you’re great and the next you’re the worst.
I was talking to a young writer the other day and the question came up about whether you need to “stay in your lane,” meaning stick with one genre. He writes screenplays and plays and poetry, and he had started thinking about writing a novel. What is my advice? I have no idea. If you’re aiming for one thing, it’s probably smart to just do that one thing and hone your craft develop contacts. But some people play multiple instruments, and others write, direct, and act. When I think of how much I put into poetry as a young person, and all the screenplays I’ve written that have gotten nowhere, and the books I wound up writing instead, I honestly can’t make much sense of it. I can connect the dots, but there was never a plan. One thing led to the next.
I got nothing this morning. My projects taunt me. The falling apart notebook with the story of my pottery lessons in the backyard garden of an old man with life lessons. The letters I wrote from London to my family trying to mask my depression. The letters sent to me when I was in the hospital for said depression. The screenplay about two employees who work on a dating site and want to date each other but are too fucked up. The screenplay about a book editor who falls in love with a neanderthal. The screenplay about a tik tok influencer and a washed up thirty-something actor from a beloved tv show. The book about adult siblings. The The book about things that ring true.
What does a workaholic do on vacation? How does a workaholic know when vacation’s over? How hard does the rain have to fall? I can still remember the first day of school after summer, pretending not to be excited, but secretly so happy to be back behind a desk, the smell of new supplies, new books, watching a new teacher try to make an impression. My mother’s sandwiches in tin foil, a piece of fruit banging around in my lunch box. I did four loads of laundry when we got home and walled off.
When you say you’re not good at something, what do you mean?
Someone called me “driven” the other day and it kind of bothered me. What does that even mean. Honestly, I’m probably more compulsive than I am driven. I don’t like leaving things unfinished. It’s also true that I get frustrated when people tell me that they can’t write, or they have to make themselves write, or they need certain circumstances in their life to be able to write. In my mind, it’s something that you do because you don’t know how to make sense of the world any other way.
No one will love you more or hurt you more than a sister.
It is said that when one person in a family is unstable, the whole family is destabilized. Meet the Shreds. Ollie has no breaks. Amy can't get her life started. Spanning two decades, Shred Sisters is an intimate and bittersweet coming of age story exploring the fierce complexities of sisterhood, mental illness, boundaries, loss and the limits of love.
Betsy Lerner 