Well, I wasn’t going to make a big deal about it, wasn’t even going to say anything, I mean really who cares? What am I, ten years old? Is this pin the tail on the donkey? A pony ride? Is this the peanut hunt that turned into a Hitchcock film when a child stepped into a hole that turned out to be a bee’s nest? Is this the cake that said in pink icing: Happy Birthday Besty? Besty! Tomorrow, I am fifty-two years old. And I want to say unequivocally that I am very happy to be alive, that being alive is better than being dead. And if I have just one wish it is this: that you work with all your might and love with all your heart and never lose hope and never give up.
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They fuck you up your mum and dad, wrote one of my favorite poets Philip Larkin. They fill you with the faults they had and add some extra just for you.
Just push through, of course you have bad days, you can’t put out everyday, you’re not even working, you’re kidding yourself, you’re too old, don’t tell people you’re writing a screenplay, you sound like a douche bag, that producer was just being polite, that fucking asshole didn’t get back to me. Should I follow up? Don’t be a douche. You’re weak. The script is good. Good not great. It’s too careful. People don’t act like that. You don’t know what you’re doing. Can I overdose on Coke Zero? Does anyone have a cigarette? WHat would it be like to quit and just live. Work on my collections: buttons, ribbons, lacquer pens, antique cigarette boxes, scarves, and mass cards. Is there a better feeling than killing a line? Or moving your rook? If I were a man I would walk all night, sit with my legs apart in wide V. If I were a girl I’d wear heels and bracelets and Amy Winehouse eyeliner. I think there are only so many combinations of ideas. So many sentences. There is a finite number of semi-colons; please use them sparingly. Yes, two fucking snowflakes are alike. Yes, the watched pot will boil eventually. Yes, cliches are like corn on the cob. Yes, you are a complete original. This is your life, this is your life chained to a desk, chained to a hope, chained to a dream.
You know the great Faulkner dictum: In writing, you must kill all your darlings. Is it true? Are the pieces you love the most and are most recalcitrant about giving up the very pieces you must kill? Does your desire to hold on to them indicate a blind spot on your part? Something precious or too personal or just bad? Does loving it so much point to a lack of objectivity? Are your darlings the best or worst of your work. Is killing the darlings a good rule of thumb or yet another fucked up twisted mind game known as writing? I spent last week killing two darlings from my screenplay. And three monologues that I loved way too much. (Yes, it’s true, I love nothing more than writing dialogue for old Jewish men taking a shvitz.) I have to confess, stripping out those characters and sub-plot opened up the whole fucking thing.
MEMO TO SELF: Take head out of sand. Here’s an article from today’s Galley Cat about self-published authors getting on The List. I gotta say, even though it puts me out of a job, I really admire people who get their work out there. I know I’ve asked before if you feel self-publishing is an option. Most people say as a last resort. When I’ve asked how many read on devices, very few say they do. From this I glean that this group is a bunch of beautiful papyrus loving luddites. We like to hold books, feel paper and sniff the glue.
Four Smashwords authors made The New York Times Best Sellers list for eBook fiction this week. Many of these authors have also topped our 
It’s official. I move to Brooklyn tomorrow for the month of August. Got the keys. Dropped off a suitcase. Tonight: pack meds and computer, leave a check for the dog walker. I’m not going to set myself up for failure with unrealistic goals. The plan is to finish my screenplay, write my new sitcom, adapt Food & Loathing into a YA (hey, I already have the first sentence), lose 10 pounds, run every day, and invent the next Facebook. (Oh, and agenting. Hello?) Wish me luck!
Some consider it morbid, but the only thing I like writing more than my Oscar acceptance speech is my obituary. My husband has lovingly reminded me that agents don’t generally get eulogized in the NYT, but a girl can dream. I would like my obituary to mention that I devoted my life to writers and books. I’d like it to say that I was punctual. And of course I would like a handful of books to be mentioned, those that were career defining, those that people truly love. I think I will die in my mid-Eighties from accidentally lighting myself on fire with a cigarette,which I will be smoking in a linen closet at the nursing home.
What were you hoping for? A thick medal with a ribbon the colors of the flag. A long line of people shifting their weight? Was it fingers smudged with typewriter ribbon from fixing a sticky key. Were you hoping to find a new way to describe a flock of geese, a craggy promontory, a kiss goodnight? Is this your notebook? Is this seat taken? Are you elevating, this being August? Did you go to the reading? Did you fuck a great writer? Did you lose his favorite pen or steal it? Does time fold in on itself like some gorgeous origami? Is that your writing desk? Can I see what you’re working on?
Betsy Lerner 