Yesterday, someone asked me how my social medial was. The same tone as, say, how’s your yeast infection. Then, what are you doing about branding. I am not Kellogs, Marlboro or Spam. I do not have a bar code on my ass. For fifteen years as an agent, I’ve been helping my authors work on their social media. My philosophy is only do what you like and therefore what you are good at. You can’t be good at it all. But now, faced with these questions and the fact that I don’t have millions of followers (preferably in purple capes and gold slippers), I fear my book will grab a shovel. Friends, I did this blog for four years to save my writing life, i.e. my life. Every night, with my boyfriend Jon Stewart cracking wise in the background, I ground out paragraphs as indulgent and florid as I could muster.

That’s all. Be my friend, like me, share, poke, prod, nod, twat, gram, thumb, or like Diane Panuzio in the fourth grade throw a hunk of asphalt at my head.

How’s your social media?

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This is it: the great pre-publication weight loss challenge. Friends, I have three months to reduce before the book comes out. Take this journey with me and you will scale the heights, plummet the depths, restrict and binge, go the gym and cry in the shower. I will try on everything in my closet and throw it on the floor, throw myself on the floor. I will try to make peace with myself but there will be no peace.

My daughter reminded me of a few choice quotes from Adele:

I’m not going to lose weight because someone tells me to. I make music to be a musician not to be on the cover of Playboy.

I don’t want to eat a Caesar salad with no dressing, why would I do that?

I’ve never wanted to look like models on the cover of magazines. I represent the majority of women and I’m very proud of that.

Then my daughter said, “Would you rather have ten Grammy’s or be a size two?

Hmmmm. How about five Grammys and a size six? Two Grammys and a size 10? How about no Grammys and I wake up one fucking day of my life and not feel like a piece of shit.

P.S. What do you want most in life?

P.S.S. Please follow me on FB or give me a big Sally Field. Apparently this will help sell books. I’m not just a whore for my book. I was a whore long before this.

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I said it would never happen, but I’ve become a nightmare. I send cloying emails every day to my editor’s assistant asking for more time, making more changes on the galleys, asking the same stupid questions about social media over and over like only a fifty-something can.  And no matter how obnoxious and ingratiating I am, this young woman remains unflappable. Maybe I’m not trying hard enough.

Meet the world’s best assistant editor aka The Slayer. She always gets back to me promptly, is always friendly and encouraging. She is also an astute reader.I trust her implicitly. And I know that she’s constantly working behind the scenes to make it all go smoothly. I always thought I was an amazing assistant, but The Slayer slays me. Honestly, I deserve an apathetic Millennial with hipster aspirations who vapes and snubs social media. The Slayer is perfect. I recently made the mistake of asking how old she is.

What kind of assistant were you?

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BARNES & NOBLE DISCOVER PRIZE

Nonfiction Finalist

Bettyville available in paperback 3/16.

 George Hodgman  IS ON FIRE.

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It’s that time of year: THE HATE LIST 2015

1. Carrie’s wig
2. Jimmy Fallon and the new late night TV line-up with the exception of my new boyfriend James Corden. I HEART JAMES CORDEN.
3. Snatch chat.
4. That McNulty/Noah Saloway is British. How?! How?!
5. The only movie I loved this year will not get nominated. Room.
6. Unsubscribe feedback requests
7. The House of Trump.
8. I hate the jacket of PURITY so much I can’t pick it up which is okay since I haven’t read The Goldfinch yet.
9. The term “binge-watching.”
10. FOMA (there is nothing better than missing out)

What’s on your list. Let’s make it long and ugly. Happy new year! Love, Betsy

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Dear Ms. Lerner,

May I hire you as an online writing coach?

Even a few feedback sessions for an exorbitant amount of cash would help.

Sincerely, NAME WITHHELD

Dear NAME WITHHELD:

I don’t even know what a writing coach is. Is it an editor with a whistle and clip board?  I also don’t believe that writers need coaching. WRITE TEN SENTENCES OR DROP AND GIVE ME FIFTY. I would be more impressed with the push ups. In any case, when you can’t write, you’re supposed to wallow. You’re supposed to turn on yourself. Pull the hair from your chest, grow bitter and alcoholic. Hiring a coach could potentially ruin all that. On the other hand, what kind of cash are we talking about? Would it fund a month at Canyon Ranch? A nip and tuck? First class air fare for the year. Pavers? Let me know.  Love, Betsy

How much would you pay me?

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Just saw Joy. Oy. This movie suffers from the fallacy that lightening can strike twice. That you can make magic instead of respecting the fact that magic happens. That you can put Jennifer Lawrence, Bradley Cooper and Robert DeNiro in a bottle, shake, and voila: movie magic. The worst part for me was when Joy, out of despair, cuts her own hair. Then, a few days later, it looks like Frederic Fekkai cut and blow dried it. Friends, I am familiar with self hair cutting. My first attempt was in the third grade when I tried bangs. The year resulted in my plastering down the too short pangs with a parade of barrettes. Now, with the equivalent of a toe nail scissors, I take to my own locks when I’m stressed. It starts as snipping and ends up Bellevue. I do this a lot when I’m writing. Picking, snipping, jerking off. I love writing.

Any corroboration?

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