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
Over the years, many writers have asked me for advice about what their next project should be. They’ll have a few ideas and want me to weigh in what I think is the most selling or commercial, which might get them a big advance. Even though I’ve been working in publishing for over 30 years, I never quite know what to say. I’ve always believed that the execution was far more important than any given idea. And I basically give the same answer: do what you feel most passionate about. It sounds sort of twee, but I really mean it. For the first time in my own writing life, I don’t know what to do next. It’s an awful feeling. I have too many ideas. If I had a shrink, I imagine she’d say that I need to sit with the feeling. Or at least that’s what she used to say about everything before I quit. It’s probably good advice, but I hated it then and I hate it now.
I feel so awful about not blogging more often, but as you know I’ve run off with a new lover called BookTok, and I find the whole whacky world of content creation (lol) and influencers and scrolling to be deeply intriguing. It’s like learning a new language or going to a foreign country. Not knowing the rules, trying to get comfortable, wanting to join but afraid of messing up. I’ve been making little videos where I read from the diaries I kept in my twenties. It’s been something of an excavation and what I see is that this little monster has been at it for a long time. Writing almost every day in those notebooks, blogging every day for years, and now my first novel. I like to say that it poured out of me, or dropped into my lap, but the reality is that every diary entry and post was part of my story, part of developing my voice, part of enjoying connecting with people and being less afraid. I like to joke that I’ve written a coming of age story at 63, but it’s no joke. It just took a while.
Dear Readers of this Blog, In the spirit of the year winding down, I thought I’d post my annual hate list: Everything pink and Barbie and my outsize jealousy of Greta Gerwig even though she has done nothing to me personally and made the highest grossing film of the year opening doors for women filmmakers which is awesome. Romantacy as a new genre. People hating on my new home away from home, TikTok, and blaming CoHo (Colleen Hoover) for the demise of fiction. People “not getting” Taylor Swift. Calling Twitter X. Succession and people praising it for the “writing.” The loss of constitutional rights. The battle for the soul of our country. The world in flames.
Sending love and light and bright new pages. Stay healthy, keep writing whatever you do, and hope to see you in the new year.
A friend just forwarded this Substack post to me (you guys aware of Substack? It’s platform for writers to make money from subscriptions – cutting out the middle man — and there’s great stuff on it). Hennyway: this was right up my alley. Love the negative writing vibe. Reminded me of us. Almost did a spit take.
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.
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 