The results are in! Rosemary Mahoney has kindly judged our contest: what do you see in front of your screen or when you open a notebook? First place goes to Donnaeve: “Initially I see a room full of strangers, by the end, old friends old enemies.” Rosemary writes: I understand this completely and have experienced it every time even after six books. The silver goes to MSB: “I see the ledge.” Writes Rose: The ledge is what I see most days when I think about what it takes to be a published writer. And the Bronze goes to Mari, “I see the scene I’m writing. What the room looks like, where everyone’s standing, the subtle expressions of their faces, the furniture in the room. I can’t even write the scene unless I know the colors of every single thing everyone’s wearing”
Prizewinners please send me (askbetsylerner@gmail.com) your address for a copy of FOR THE BENEFIT OF THOSE WHO SEE. Thanks to everyone who left a comment. And here’s a link to Rosemary’s website with rave reviews and beautiful slide show.. I kid you not: this dog can hunt. She makes you see and feel blindness. Imagine that. Love, B
Filed under: Authors, Books, Uncategorized, Writers, Writing | Tagged: blind, Braille Without Borders, for the benefit of those who see, Rosemary Mahoney, Sabriye Tenberkin | 10 Comments »

Please do yourself an enormous favor and 


The bottom line is no one cares if you don’t write. No one asked you to. No one will die. There are chipmunks who work harder than you. You didn’t need to buy that Moleskin. You forgot you had one anyway. No one said: a poem please. No cried out when you sat down, mid-poem, because you couldn’t bleat another line, a lifetime ago on Minetta Lane. Do not ask what your writing can do for you. Do not got to therapy and crawl inside your inner ear. Did you ever think it was a gift from god? To stop? You won’t have to eat. You need not sing. You don’t have to be anything. When you remember those pages rocking out to sea, remember how good it felt to not reach for a simile. My face and your ass. Is like.
When I was in college, I had a friend whose father was a dry cleaner. He referred to his work as “pressing the piss out of other men’s pants.”







