Posted on December 7, 2015 by betsylerner
I’ve never believed in
“best of” lists until now. Congratulations to George Hodgman and Patti Smith. Thank you Maureen Corrigan of NPR. Fucking A.
In Bettyville, George Hodgman, who had a major career in editing and publishing in New York City, writes of moving home to Paris, Missouri to care for his elderly mother, Betty, who’s never acknowledged that her son is gay. In the opening scene, Hodgman is roused by a fretful Betty in the middle of the night: “[h]ere she is, all ninety years of her, curlers in disarray, … peeking into our guest room where I have been mostly not sleeping. It is the last place in America with shag carpet. In it, I have discovered what I believe to be a toenail from high school.” Like Roz Chast’s Can’t We Talk About Something More Pleasant?, Hodgman’s Bettyvillecaptures the exhaustion, sorrow and moments of absurdity involved in caring for elderly loved ones.
Unlike her first memoir, the now classic, Just Kids, which was all about the thrill of “becoming,” Patti Smith’s incantatory M Trainis mostly about the challenge of enduring erosion and discovering new passions (like detective fiction and a tumbledown cottage in Rockaway Beach, Queens). Smith, of course, is a “kid” no longer. She’s now 68 and she’s suffered a lot of losses, including the deaths of artist Robert Mapplethorpe, who was her partner in crime in the Just Kids years, and her husband, musician Fred “Sonic” Smith, who died suddenly in his 40s. “They are all stories now,” says Smith, thinking of these and other deaths. The narrative of M Train, fittingly, is fragmented and incantatory, more like Smith’s distinctive song lyrics. At bottom, though, both of Smith’s memoirs tell a haunting story about being sheltered and fed, in all senses, by New York City.
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Posted on December 4, 2015 by betsylerner
When I was a young girl, I was convinced that the Nazis were going to storm our house and take me away or kill us. My mother sat me down and explained the difference between rational and irrational fears. Since then my irrational fears have multiplied exponentially.
- I will be killed like the Clutters.
- I will be pushed in front a subway
- A crane will fall on my head
- I will choke on a turkey and bacon wrap
- A drunk driver will hit my car head on
- I will fall while crossing the street and get run over; manuscripts will spill out of my canvas tote and the pages will be taken up by the wind and scatter over Fifth Avenue like confetti.
What’s your irrational fear(s)?
p.s. two people haven’t claimed their copy of Calf. So please send me your address for your copy.
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Posted on December 2, 2015 by betsylerner
I’ve been off diet soda for five days and if there’s a bed free at Silver Hill, I’ll take it. I almost broke down at the Krauser’s driving home from the train station yesterday. They have a reliable stock of Sunkist diet orange and a bucket of stale Bulls Eyes. The staler the better.
What’s your poison?
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Posted on December 1, 2015 by betsylerner
I met with a young writer today. And by young I mean twenty. She’d published an essay in a national paper that I thought was exceptional and I reached out to her. She sent me more work and I was really impressed again. We talked for an hour or so about her background, her writing experiences, the different kinds of writing she does, the project she’s working on now. She knew she wanted to write since she was about seven. That’s when I started keeping diaries of my hot dog consumption. We also talked about what path she might take after college. God help me but I encouraged her to keep writing. I hope her parents don’t come after me. I know I shouldn’t encourage young people to write but I could’t help it. She had that thing.
What is that thing?
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Posted on November 26, 2015 by betsylerner
My view is that writers are loners, outsiders, chameleons and con artists. Thanksgiving, therefore, is a trial. Family is a trial. Warm feelings are confusing. THe only thing I don’t feel ambivalent about are the baton twirlers; I love all the hope implied in a silver rod turning around in the sky like an acrobat before it’s caught in the chubby hand of a girl with the sun in her eyes.
How will you get through the day?
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Posted on November 22, 2015 by betsylerner
LAST WEEK’S CONTEST judged by the brilliant debut author of CALF, Andrea Kleine. And the winners** are:
Katherine Weber for Last Exit to Brooklyn by Hubert Selby Jr. One year I had a job teaching theater to middle school kids. I had one class in the morning and one in the afternoon and sometimes in the break I would go to the movies. One day I saw the film adaptation of Requiem for a Dream and then had to go back and teach theater games to 8th graders. That was rather difficult.
TristaIsShort for Last Days by Brian Evenson. Evenson is a master at creeping out on the porous borders of religion and the physical body. I haven’t read this particular novel, but I see it contains a detective with my last name (albeit misspelled, IMHO.
Jwelling for 1984 by George Orwell. Double plus good.
Check out Andrea’s interview on Brad Listi’s Otherppl series:
http://otherppl.com/andrea-kleine-interview/
And more: http://www.americanmicroreviews.com/calf-by-andrea-kleine
**I want to thank everyone for participating. Winners please email me your snail address for your copy of Calf. Thank you Andrea!
Betsy@dclagency.com
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Posted on November 19, 2015 by betsylerner
No shit. Sebastian Junger shows up on The Affair. You know, the program I’m watching because I’m still in love with McNulty. Junger has a cameo. He plays himself and he says he claims to use reiki to help him write. Really? Let’s talk about this. I’ve never tried any alt methods to help with writing. On the contrary, I’ve always felt that writer’s block is god’s gift to man. I’m old school: the only thing that produces writing is writing. Plus, I love my demons way too much to release them. Plus, I’m ticklish.
What about you? Massage, meditation, yoga, long walks with a stick? What helps?
Filed under: Authors, Fame! Celebrity! Riches!, Haters, Uncategorized, Writers, Writing | Tagged: Sebastian Junger, The Affair, writers block | 20 Comments »
Posted on November 7, 2015 by betsylerner
Some years ago, I read a manuscript called CALF, a brilliant, ambitious novel about the eighties, about violence, and a world where a Washington socialite guilty of murdering her daughter and John Hinckley could both wind up at St. Elizabeth’s for reasons of insanity. And become romantically involved. I got down on one knee and asked the author, Andrea Klein, if she would have me as her agent. Our walk to the altar of publication was long and full of pot holes, but we got there. CONGRATULATIONS ANDREA on the publication of Calf. You slay me.
What is the most violent novel you’ve read and how has it affected you? I’ll ask Andrea to choose the top three responses and send the “winners” copies of CALF. You can’t win if you don’t play.
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Posted on November 6, 2015 by betsylerner
I read this story by Ben Marcus on the way home from the city. I don’t really like short stories all that much, but I loved this one. In part because it was like a novel in a nutshell. Partly because I felt tense the entire time I was reading it. I also thought that the details had god in them; the narration so assured I did’t need to worry. And most of all it felt real.
Is is real or is it Memorex?
Filed under: fiction, Short stories, The New Yorker, Writing | Tagged: Ben Marcus, The New Yorker, writing | 9 Comments »
Posted on November 4, 2015 by betsylerner
It’s almost dark. Leaves skittering. For a moment, I think I see a bear upright and dancing under the lamplight. Then it’s gone. I’m trying to think of the next scene in the script I’m writing. THis is new for me. I don’t usually think about what I’m going to write: I just write. I figure it out after. A man in a red jacket is walking on the other side of the street. We look at each other. He is probably trying to guess my age. I am trying to ascertain whether he is a murderer. Do I slow down or hasten my steps. I could go two ways with the script. Or twenty. It feels like there is a key, but of course there isn’t. Force it don’t force it. Fuck it don’t fuck it. Please don’t kill me. 
What are you afraid of?
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Betsy Lerner 