Writers often ask me to recommend other agents after I’ve declined their work. Fair enough, I suppose, doesn’t hurt asking and all that, but it’s awkward. If I pass on a project but feel that I know the perfect agent, I will volunteer that agent’s name. Otherwise, I feel uncomfortable and somewhat put upon. There are so many ways to research agents now… but I often do supply a name or two even though I don”t want to. I’m sympathetic with the writer, I really am, but it’s also really uncomfortable. When I do give a few names, I always say, please do not use my name. Agents don’t take kindly to agent referrals. In the words of a publisher I once worked for: damaged goods. I often think that’s ridiculous, what’s right for the goose isn’t necessarily right for the cow. And yet, and yet, when an agent sends a writer my way (and they often do if the manuscript is about weight, mental illness, quirky, memoir, jewy etc.) I’m immediately turned off. If it’s so good, why did you pass? Of course, referrals from clients, famous writers, entertainment lawyers, astrophysicists, casting agents, and hemoglobins are TOTES welcome. Am I a fuckface or what? I feel like fucking off.
How do you get agent names?
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Perfect NYC day. After a grueling day as a power agent, meaning I had a power breakfast, power lunch, power meeting at a law firm right out of Grisham, and a visit to my beloved psychopharmacologist, I went to see Uncle Vanya with Cate Blanchett. It was a star studded night of literati, of indie actors, Broadway war horses, a sit com actor in a straw hat and a lot of short men with Chekhovian facial hair, which is to say unkempt. Afterwards, John and I walked down to Soho and this may have been the best part of the night: everyone, literally everyone, looked amazing in the sultry New York night. Then m&m’s in bed. Some days life doesn’t suck.
Someone asked if I would write another book. Not if I can help it. I really want to write movies. I think I might have mentioned that I got kicked out of NYU film school. I would like to get an Oscar and say, “no thanks to NYU.” Do I know that I’m too old to break in (yes, yes, the King’s SPeech)? Do I know that most indie movies are made by writer-directors? Do I know that family dramas are the last thing anyone wants (yes, yes The Kids Are All RIght, The Descendants) And yes, the rules are made to be douche bags. But I do have book ideas. Especially during the month of August when the sun follows me. THere’s my old idea, THe RIng of Truth which looks at why people have mini orgasms when they read or go to readings; My Carrie-inspired YA, I want to adapt Food & Loathing as a YA, or rather a publisher asked me if I ever thought to then disappeared. I want to write LOVE IS BLINd and Other Cliches. I want to write a book called Knowing When To Quit (about Family, love, and work). A sort of counter-intuitive self help that suggests quitting and giving up is just as valid if not more than persisting. I’d like to write a book about seeds. A cultural history.
You know how people say it’s the journey not the result that counts? Really? I mean doesn’t that sound like a rationale from people who don’t get results. Also, what’s so great about the journey? It’s full of hardship and suffering and self-doubt and insecurity and rejection and humiliation and pain and financial strife and snubs and perceived snubs. Aren’t the results what you really want? Would I really keep writing screenplays if I didn’t think that somehow, somewhere a producer might spit in my kasha? Do I love it that much that I would just stay on the journey, clop clop clop, if I didn’t eventually get some nod from the universe that I wasn’t a dumb shit? I don’t know. I mean: I’m asking? No one hires me to go on a journey. THey want their book sold. Okay, that’s different. Don’t people pursue what they are generally good at anyway? I’m never going to be a zumba instructor, a phlebotomist, or a senator.
We need to talk about structure. I’ve known some editors who feel they can impose a structure on a book. Others who feel it is organic, issues forth from the text. You say potato. I say tomato. Some books lend themselves to certain structures. The story dictates it to some extent. Some books need to be written before the ultimate structure is clear. What exactly is structure: parts, chapters, point of view, tense are all part of it. Some writers have a sixth sense when it comes to structure. They know how to break a story, when and how to shift tense, how to deploy point of view. The most challenging book I ever worked on structure-wise was Columbine by Dave Cullen. How to write about an event everyone thinks they know about? How do you make the past present? If you are lost where structure is concerned, read a short story collection and analyze how each story is constructed. I always felt as an editor that you had a certain amount of play up to about 75-100 pages at which point you had to commit. I think some of the manuscripts that are submitted to me are in search of a structure. There is no organizing principle. No clock. No shuffle. No feint.
Blind date. In my world that means having lunch with an editor I’ve never met before. He emailed me a month ago and said something nice about my list and we made a date and it was today. I guess I could have looked him up on FaceTweet but that’s not how I roll. I just go to the restaurant, snort some Ritalin in the Ladies Room and wing it. This young man was funny, slightly aloof or shy, knew his shit. Refreshing. He ordered a lobster roll which was impressive. He brought me a galley for a book he edited. It was full of blurbs and I always admire editors who work hard to get the blurbs. He was smart about the kind of books he wants to work on, well spoken, and polite. I basically judge editors by the way they treat waiters. Is there any better indicator of a person’s character? When I was a young editor, I remember having lunch with agents who are my age now. They seemed really square and arrogant to me. Glory days and all that crap. Dear Lord, grant me one wish: what was it?
Today, my intern commented on how all the submissions I asked him to read were depressing, about trauma, death, pain, etc. And your point is? I asked him why he thought people were compelled to write. Because it’s fun? he asserted. For a moment I flashed on what it might be like to experience writing as fun. Surely someone was having fun: the creators of Beavis and Butthead, James “seven books a year” Paterson. James Franco. It seems like Sedaris has fun though how could suffering not be far behind? I think Paul Krugman is having some fun. I think Russell Brand had fun ejaculationg My Booky Wooky. Tucker Max has fun. Fun? Do people really have fun? I explained to said intern that I was nicknamed the pain and suffering editor. That Al ROker called my memoir, the feel bad book of the year, and I took it as high praise. IDK. Writing isn’t fun for me. But then again, what is?
Dear Scott Rudin:
I think I’ve mentioned that I have always looked at my own slush. Most agents give the slush to assistants, interns, night watchmen, and cleaning crews to go through. We used to have pizza parties at Doubleday and all the assistants would gather in the conference once a month or so and tear through the slush. Good times. THe reason I look at all my slush is twofold: First: I love opening mail. Love it. Ever since I was a kid, getting mail was the best fucking thing. Second: I’ve never trusted anyone to determine whether I would be interested in a project. This week, my slush produced a grand slam — three projects I wanted to see more of.
Betsy Lerner 