Let’s talk about the impostor complex. Who me? You talking to me? Thinking that your work sucks is baby stuff. I’m talking deep, ingrained, institutional self disgust. I’m talking about a baggie and a twisty. A-list celebrities going down on you. On page 1: Bruce Springsteen sprinkles gold tarnished fraud. I wish I could be Bruce Springsteen for five holy minutes. The better I feel the worse I feel. I hear that senators and kings suffer. Bradley Cooper. The twins. You say we’re all impostors. You say everyone thinks about it. Ashton Kutcher. This is what you say when you leave the office meeting dinner elevator:

When do you feel like an impostor?

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Over the weekend, I had a book event/fund raiser in Westport, CT. A bridge club invited me to read, followed by a luncheon, and two hours of duplicate bridge. First of all: this is my life. Is this my life? Who am I? Did I write a book about five Jewish octogenarians and learn to play bridge? Do I go to readings with my mother and kibbitz on the way there and back. And actually want to spend this time with her. And feel all this incredible connection with people about the book. Me? At one point, while signing books, someone yanked my dress (yes, I wore a dress!) and I discovered that the back of my dress was tucked up into the waist of my pantyhose and everyone could see my control tops and my ample arse.

What was your finest hour?

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When did this become a thing: a person emails you and tells you to call him. Please don’t ask me to call you. Please let’s not make a phone date. Just pick up the phone and call. If I’m not there, leave a message and I’ll call back. Isn’t that how we used to do it? I always thought that was a pretty good system. What’s the point of using email to make a phone date. It’s an extra step and it puts the onus on the wrong party.

Am I right?

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I’ve been editing a manuscript for the last week and I am reminded how much I love it. When the book is meh, it’s kind of thankless. But when you’re working on a book that is beautifully written, surprising, risk-taking, and emotionally powerful it’s like having a thrilling conversation. It’s like sparring with someone you respect, fear and love. You prod the writer with questions that hopefully compel him to respond in a way that makes the book even more fully realized, or change up transitions to keep it moving, or cut scenes that don’t advance the story. I love suggesting one word for another if it strikes me to have more clarity or accuracy.

Are you a good editor?

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I used to go to an optometrist who caught six home-run balls over the years. I asked him his secret. Well, first, he played baseball in high school and college and throughout his adult life. He said when a home-run ball is hit, people in the stands start jumping around trying to catch it. He planted his feet and snagged the ball out of the air.

I could be out of my mind, but it seemed like an apt metaphor for writing. You’ve got to do it for many years (it just doesn’t “happen”) and you’ve got to settle.

Do you have a metaphor for writing?

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I’m in Paris, MO with my dear friend and client George Hodgman. George and I were editorial assistants at SImon & Schuster a hundred years ago. You may remember that I was a ripe 26 when I “broke into” publishing. I was so determined to “make it” that I didn’t want to hang out with the assistants who really didn’t give a shit, or were chronic complainers, or headed to law school. I wanted to befriend the ones who really wanted to become editors, and I wanted to learn from them.

I knew George was a brilliant writer when I read his flap copy. He had flare. He turned a phrase. In that single column that graces the inside flap of a book, he could make you want to read a book about mitochondria. I stalked him and we became friends. He went on to become an editor of prize winning and bestselling books, an extension of his instincts and brilliant editing.

When George finally produced some pages of his own, I wasn’t surprised to find them moving, hilarious, elegant. Those pages became the beloved memoir, Bettyville. Last night in Columbia, MO, as the centerpiece of a monthlong “One Read” program, George gave a keynote speech to a packed auditorium. He told the crowd of 600 people what it was like losing his beloved mother, Betty. He talked about caregiving and aging and community and kindness. He did it all with flare and sweetness and his wicked sense of humor. Being part of the standing ovation was a singular thrill, watching my beloved friend embraced by his community. At the Q&A, a woman came up to the microphone and asked if she could give him a hug. “No!” George said.

If you haven’t read Bettyville yet, you are in for a treat. Love from Paris, MO.

What’s your favorite memoir?

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I gave a reading today. During the q&a, there’s always one person who asks what you’re writing next. I’m working on not getting depressed. I’m working on my waistline. I’m working on my attitude. I’m working on my sleep. My flossing is already tip top. I’m working on my hair. I’m working on my vocabulary. I’m working on my self-esteem. I’m detoxing from social media, I’m working on my Bridge game, I’m working on being a kinder, gentler nation. I’m working on two pages a day if we are going to be completely honest is two pages a week if we are going to be completely honest is a page a month.

What are you working on?

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My intern accused me of being jaded. How can you not be jaded after doing something for 30 years. Then again, I’ve been jaded since the sixth grade. I knew then that life was predictable and wearying. I could tell what every teacher was going to say before they said it. I knew that nobody meant what they said. I knew that I was always going to be too sensitive and angry and sentimental and sorrowful. True excitement always seems manufactured to me. Happy people make me nervous and jealous if I thought it was real.

Are you jaded?

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Sometimes one of my writers will fall into a hole. If they are writing a book about blankets, suddenly the whole world, they are convinced, is obsessed with blankets. They will see something in the newspaper about horse hair blankets and send me the link. The craft museum is staging an exhibit about quilts! See! A famous designer is using old blankets to make ponchos. Every conversation they have gets steered toward blankets. Guess what was on TV last night? Yup, Beach Blanket Bingo.

I call this rapture of the deep. It’s something that happens to divers when they have either gone too deep or don’t get enough oxygen and their thinking is impaired. I call it rapture of the deep because it’s all consuming. I’ve worked with writers for long enough to know that rapture is part of the process of immersion. It’s always a relief, however, when they start coming back up for air.

Have you seen the rapture?

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When I was eight years old, I met a girl at camp and we became inseparable for the entire summer. I loved her. A month after camp ended, I ran into her in the stationery store where we shopped for back to school supplies. She was looking at some notebooks when I spotted her. Instead of running up to say hi, I pretended that I didn’t see her. Then when she noticed me and ran over, I acted very cool as if she were an distant acquaintance.

To this day I don’t know why I did that. Any theories? Any similar experiences?

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