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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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.
WHen I left the world of editorial to become an agent, the most asked question I received was: where are you going to find clients? All the usual places: under rocks, in dives, in Nova Scotia, in their parents basement smoking crack. Or like Wallace Stevens in Hartford, or Paterson NJ, or the Keys. Don’t kid yourself, writers are everywhere, like faeries, you just need to know how to look. And then you have to have the right blend of blossoms and honey to get them to come out and play. How do you get clients. #1 way for most agents is referrals. #2 write letters to interesting people who you think have a story or some message #3 writers conferences and MFA pogroms. You could also steal other people’s clients. I worked for a man who read every literary magazine there was and wrote to the writers whose stories he admired. He called them friendly fan letters and that’s the kind I write. Sometimes you hear back, often you don’t. That never stops me from trying again. Sometimes, like many things in life, it’s a matter of timing.
What do agents actually do? I hear this asked a lot. One client once ventured a guess: you talk on the phone all day. Yes, it’s just like being in Junior High. When I was an editor, the editor in chief once stopped my office with the phone bill in his hand. He was waving it around and said that I spend more time on the phone than all the other editors. I shot back without hesitation explaining that I’m a top gun and everyone should be logging as many hours as me. He accepted it and departed. That was a close call. Of course, now phone time is largely spent doing email. In fact, I’ve grown phone-phobic. Though there are times when you have to pick up the phone, which can be to intimidate, console, take a temperature or gossip.
Really really really why do you write? Is it fun? Is it how you know who you are? Is it how you understand your world, people, their ways? Is it a habit? Is it an outlet? Is it therapy? Are you an artist, a typer, a wordsmith? Why don’t you paint or sculpt or dance or code. Who do you write for, your self? Your parents? Your peers? FUture generations? Are you on the outside, the inside? Do you have a need? Are you lost? Are you found?
Do you like being alone? Being alone with your work? Alone in your head. Do you like going to movies alone? Diners? Walking alone? Traveling by yourself. Are you alone when you’re at a party? Making small talk? Do you write when you can’t write. In your head, on the ceiling, the roof of your mouth?
