Discipline, desire, commitment, obsession. What gets you up at five, your silhouette ghost-like in the dark pre-dawn windows. Why would you rather be alone than at a party thrown in your honor? Why does everything in the world seem dull unless you are writing? Transforming overheard conversation. Reaching for a simile that links up thematically. A eureka moment that fizzles. I deal with writers all day long and they are living in a parallel universe where there is hot soup, where they can’t find their pen, where their mothers love them. Ego without confidence. Confidence without ability. Ability that can’t find it’s own elbow. Love that doesn’t know its name.

What am I trying to say?

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Dear All: I am living the dream. After going to three Patti Smith shows in LA, I am now spending a couple of days in Malibu editing a book I love on a balcony overlooking the ocean. In the far distance, a bunch of surfers are basking in the sun on their boards. Okay, the real dream would be for all this to happen without my eating stale Dean & Deluca candy off the mini bar as if I were a lab rat. If I didn’t pick all the polish off my toes. If I didn’t seize with panic attacks every hour and a half and do a blackhead patrol.

What’s your dream and would you fuck it up?

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So a writer approaches me with his manuscript. I see that he has fantastic credentials, has published widely and in all the right places. The concept seems muddy to me and I tell him so, describe how I would refocus the project. I think about taking it on, but step aside. Honestly, it feels like a lot of work with no certain outcome. Still, I provide a few comparison titles to give the writer my take on the project and urge him to find a new title. He’s very appreciative and asks for a few agent names. I don’t usually supply names (do your homework!), but I do here. The writer has been especially polite so what the fuck. He writes me today to let me know that one of the agents I recommended took it on, sold it for a bucket of money, and the book is debuting on the NYT bestseller list at #5. He’s writing to thank me.*

Thank me? How about fuck me? I guess I have to file this under win some lose some. Or I could beat myself forever and ever, which, if history is our guide, is my method of choice.

How do you punish yourself?

*this little anecdote is a composite of two stories.

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I did an event today with my mother. After the luncheon, I read a small passage from the book and then we took the stage. She in her Eileen Fisher, me in my Uniqlo. She accessorized up the wazoo. Me wearing my watch. Her nails flawless, mine chewed. Her hair styled, mine frizzy and unruly. A conversation ensued and, without warning, my darling 85 year old mother morphed into Rodney Dangerfield. She starts whipping off one-liners and zingers. And she’s getting all the laughs.In the car on the way home, she says, “Bets, I think I got the bigger laughs.”

Tell me about your mom.

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It’s really hard to think about writing, publishing, virtually anything while our world hangs in the balance. I’ve never been political in any of my blog posts and I doubt I have anything new to add to the conversation, but it really is hard to feel that anything matters. How do you write a book about butterflies, or calories, or Mark Twain’s beloved butler? How do you quiet all the voices, put your blinders on, and not think about Donald popping Tic Tacs and groping women. Let alone blowing up the world.

How do you do your work?

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A lot of people are talking about Bob Dylan getting the Nobel Prize.

What say you?

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Every year I sit with my mother for Yom Kippur services. I space out for most of it, hum along with prayers I learned years ago, stare at the stain glass panels searching for imperfections, read the prayer book randomly like people who spin a globe and go to wherever their finger lands. The music is familiar, heavy. Waves of sadness move through me. My father. My sister. The young son of an old friend. I say I hate coming, but I’ll miss it when she’s gone. I’ll miss everything.

May you be written in the book of life.

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I have a client who has either no or negative self-esteem. That said, he is a writer. And I’ve always believed that writers are egomaniacs, often closeted, but egomaniacs all the same. How the hell else do you bank your life on sentences knowing that there is a mighty chance that no one will read them, and make them anyway. Is that ego, insanity, possession, obsession, neurosis, inspiration, habit, faith? I think the reason people write is because they need to. This post is all over the fuckin’ place.

Are writers egomaniacs?

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Guys, guys!!! Look who has a book coming out. One of our very own peeps, Rea Tarvydas. CONGRATULATIONS. Such a cool title: How to Pick up a Maid in Statue Square. Buy a copy HERE. Here’s a little interview I did with Rea. Please spread the work, share with your FB friends, tweet and all that meat.

1. What did it feel like to hold a finished book in your hands?

It was surreal. I mean, I knew it was my book because it had my name on it but it was a different emotional experience than I expected. Vulnerable. A shiny, black book exposing what troubles me: the dark, the lonely, the isolated.

2. How did you come up with the title?

Actually, my press came up with the title. It’s the title of one of the stories in the book, in which Fast Eddy instructs on how best to pick up Filipina maids on their rest day. I’m SO BAD at titles. I mean, it took me two years to come up with a working title (The Globe) and it’s adequate because it’s the name of the bar that my characters frequent.I like the title. I think long titles are trending.

3. If one famous person could read your book, who and why?

John Cusack. I pictured John Cusack playing the character of Fast Eddy from the collection. I sent a copy of the book to his production company. Why not?

4. Which is your least favourite part of the process?

House style.

(what the fuck does this mean? Is it like Gangnam style?

5. Why do you write?  Two reasons. I write because I’m trying to figure something out and I’ve discovered I don’t know anything. I mean, I attempt to understand but I have no fucking idea what’s going on.

I write because I want to be called by name. I think this is tied to my upbringing as the “Sergeant’s Daughter”. My Dad was in the RCMP and we moved every three years throughout my childhood. When you move that frequently you’re referred to as the “New Girl” and then the “Sergeant’s Daughter”. Followed by “Narc” and “Sarge”. I ended up in the nursing profession and was referred to as “Nurse”. If I didn’t show up for work, another nameless person took my place.

(whoa)

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People are just as likely to ask what you’re watching on TV as what you’re reading. TV is exploding and binge watching is the only acceptable thing to binge on. I actually watch some programs on my phone under the covers, the way I used to read as a kid. My favorites are Luther, THe Killing, Happy Valley, and Transparent.

What are yours?

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