SECOND IN A FIVE PART SERIES – HOW WRITERS SOMETIMES THINK (Or, Another Specious Dichotomy)
A writer gets a prize, a Whiting, a PEN, something sweet and it goes to right to his head. Yes, I am finally recognized for my gift. I’ve wanted this forever and I deserve it. Champagne! A new suit and tie. They like me, they really, really like me. Another writer beats himself with his prize. His impostor complex rages. He can barely look you in the eye when you compliment him. It’s a fluke. It will never happen again. He doubles up on therapy.
Which writer will better survive his prize? Is the prize half empty of half full?
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Sometimes when you can’t sell a writer’s work, he blames you, the fault is in the agent or in the literary community whose doors are closed. The fault lies squarely outside himself. Another writer will blame himself, fears he has wasted your time. The fault lies within himself and his book. Which attitude is more healthy or helpful to the writer in the long term? Does the first writer have the huge ego needed by most to survive the writing life? DOes the second writer have the kind of humility that allows him to see and feel beyond himself. Is the angry writer energized? The guilty writer deflated? Which one is his own worst enemy? Are both deluded, blind, looking for a toehold of any kind? Does it even matter what we tell ourselves?
A cousin at the bar mitzvah asked me how you know when a book is good, when you want to represent it? You sit up straighter. Your wheels start turning. You want to tell people about it. You can’t put it down. Your hands get clammy. Certain editors come to mind. Your skepticism slips away. A pitch starts to form. A title comes to mind. You can’t wait to call the writer. It’s all about urgency when you read something you love. Your passion ignites. You can’t fake it or force it. You get swept up. You feel you’ve made a great discovery. Then you shove another rugelach in your fat face.
Here’s the thing I can never get over: being a writer means having the opportunity to create something from nothing. It’s amazing. I try to act like I’m over it, like it’s all so much rust and resin, that every cage has lots its tiger, that computers destroyed writing, that nothing lasts and there’s nowhere to go. I like to walk with a dark cloud over my head, with a subway train hurtling down the wrecked track, where every conversation about Fifty Shades of Grey never ends like a version of hell, like that poor woman face down in the middle of Fifth Avenue her bag sprawled beside her, gawkers taking pictures. The inside of an ambulance. The inside of a mouth. The inside of a thick manuscript bound by beautiful sentences. That is the thing I can never get over.
The first day back to work after Labor Day is usually something of a feeding frenzy when agents flood the market with their projects. Received wisdom dictates that you don’t sell a book in August when most editors and publishers are taking vacation. Agents will stockpile projects rather than sell them in the final weeks of August. And then September with its macintosh back to school plaid and patent leather snap arrives and let the games begin. Me, I let the foot soldiers go first and then I attack. WHat? Please. In publishing, a strategy that works is a strategy that works. There are more exceptions than rules. And the inmates most certainly run the asylum. Or should.
Holiday weekend reading bag. I have two manuscripts that clients have completed (go clients! it’s your birthday), a sample chapter from a proposal in progress, a new proposal, and if at all possible, I’d like to finish the memoir on my bedside table even though I hate the big fat boot on the cover. What are you going to read this weekend? I hope you get a little time off. One last drink of summer. Love, Betsy
TOday on the subway platform, I saw an attractive couple, young, crisp in their white polo shirts. She was slightly aloof, he was trying very hard to make her smile. He would touch her arm to no effect. He’d peck her cheek. He’d peck again. She’d pull away. Then it became clear there was something wrong. I couldn’t hear what they were saying until he raised his voice and I heard him say, “I’ll try harder, I will.” She looked away. Oh, baby, don’t go there. He pulled her to him and kissed her head, then her neck, and again she shook him off. Then, she took out the heavy artillery and wiped a tear away.
Today we had a clean up day at the office and I decided to weed archived files. I thought the task would be time consuming, what I never expected were the intense emotions I felt upon seeing correspondence from three clients who had died, a beloved colleague whose emails over the smallest deals were always filled with the greatest enthusiasm ($500 from Turkey!!!), and my British agent who was like a father to me. Or the pride I still felt over the yellowed NYT reviews for some of the first books I edited or sold. THe little note cards filled with thanks and gratitude after a book was sold. The seven and eight page editorial letters. The jacket comps. Even the goodbye letters, like divorce papers, a rebuke of all you once did together and all you once had. For all those relationships that didn’t last, all the intensity long past; still, I’m sorry.
Okay. I did it. Twenty two hours, eight Coke Zeros, four low fat hot dogs, and a million cherry tomatoes (wouldn’t it just be easier to smoke?): I finished my screenplay. I said I’d do it by the end of the summer or put it on that cold shelf in hell. I fell asleep twice while writing, reorganized my top desk drawer, moved all the pictures in my office to different spots four times, destroyed my baby toes, and got the motherfucking thing done. I’m not looking at it for a few weeks, advice I’ve handily dispensed all my life and never followed. The desire to start picking at it is titanic. But I’m not doing it. I think I cracked the structure problem, and I may even know what it’s about now. Maybe. My husband asked me what I’m going to do with it now. All I could lovingly think to reply was that I would shove it up my ass. A little angry? Sure. I mean what is all this for? It’s not like I’m living the dream.
In the time honored tradition of trashing books I haven’t read, I’d like to call attention to Molly Ringwald’s first short story collection, When It Happens To You. According to the NYT today, her writing skills are on par with her acting ability. Sure, she’s an easy target. Everyone from St. Elmo’s Fire is an easy target. Was Ringwald even in St. Elmo’s Fire? Who really gives a fuck. All of those movies suck and are particularly offensive to me because they are my gen and it shames me. Where are the Easy Riders? Where are the Days of Heaven? None of the actors went on to have careers of any note with the exception of James Spader and Rob Lowe! Am I missing anyone? I heard that Andrew McCarthy is writing a memoir. I hope it’s not about his life. For my money, I would like to read the short stories of Mickey Rourke, Daniel Day Louis, and Winona Ryder.
Betsy Lerner 