Congratulations Neil! Tonight was the publication party for The Space Chronicles, which conveniently coincided with the book hitting the NYT bestseller list AND Neil testifying before the Senate on the future of NASA. Dear Friends and Readers of this blog, if you don’t know Neil de Grasse Tyson or his work, do not delay; he is a brilliant scientist and passionate public intellectual. Whether talking about Isaac Newton or flying to Mars, he is an amazing communicator with an abundance of wit, charm, and passion, not to mention that People Magazine named him one of the sexiest men of the year (I know, I’m so transparent). I spent most of the party talking to his 84 year old dad, the tree from which this most shiny apple fell. And if you don’t believe me, check him out on twitter, on Jon Stewart, on in conversation with Colbert,
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I had lunch with an editor last week and we found ourselves talking about the phenomenon when writers turn on their work, when it becomes the enemy or the receptacle for all of their anger, when the very fact of it sickens them, embarrasses them, as if the work itself betrayed them. It’s like a drunk on a bender, out of control, on a collision course. I used to gravitate toward those writers, confusing their self-destruction for authenticity and complexity. Some writers truly love their work, and continue to love it, like a first grader her first potato print. I feel so insanely proud of my clients’ work, but I’ve never been able to fully muster that feeling for my own writing. One of my writers once said that if she were a general, she’d polish her brass every night. I wondered what it would be like to feel that kind of pride. To stand up straight and salute the clear blue sky.
I didn’t get a chance to write last night because I was drilling my kid on the American Revolution until I fell into a coma. I have to say I think school really sucks. I was reminded of how I used to feel dead walking down the locker-lined halls of my high school. My history teacher’s hair was chlorine-bleached from coaching the swim team. He was the type to perch on a desk in an effort to appear casual and caring (these were the Welcome Back Kotter Days). I often day dreamed about the girl who day dreamed in her seat by the window, her face pale with a sheen of oil, her boots like an elf’s. I also remember feeling agitated by the boys in the class and their flushed faces, some with scruff, their bigness and loudness. We had to made a chart of our lives, a history, and everyone brought in large pieces of cardboard sloppily decorated with baby pictures up to the present. One boy, Roland, had a circular graph of his brain. I still think about him for no good reason.
I’ve slept with a few writers and I have to recommend it. Yes, they’re self-involved. Yes, they will take the best of you and use it in their next short story. Yes, they can be just as awful as non-writing men. But, it’s still worth if you’re seduced by words, by romance, by a guy who can talk about an Alice Munro story while frying an egg. Their sensitivity can be sublime. Their narcissism genius. Mystery and thriller writers are reliable. Poets are grateful. Journalists will eat in bed. Novelists take their time. It’s probably better to sleep with a writer before they get too famous. You know what fame can do to people.
TOP TEN REASONS TO LIVE WITH A WRITER
Today is the publication date of my husband’s first novel, 
If I hear one more person say that YA is the hottest category I am going to strangle myself (forget that after I get my script off my hands I’m turning to a YA novel I started a year ago after a publisher contacted me because she loved the blog and wondered if I ever thought of trying to write one. I lied and said I had). And, I confess, I just bought a copy of Hunger Games. I didn’t go near Harry Potter or Twilight, but when I heard that kids killed kids in Hunger Games, I confess I was curious. The YA books of my youth: Go Ask Alice, Flowers for ALgernon, David and Lisa, The Butterfly Revolution, THe Outsiders, Of Mice and Men, In This SIgn, and purloined copies of The Godfather. Now apparently there are hundreds of series about mean girls, rich girls, blonde girls, and undead girls. Go girls!
It’s Oscar weekend. Usually my favorite night of the year from the first Blahnik on the red carpet to the last acceptance speech cut short for going over time. But this year I’m not in the mood. Maybe it’s because they had to borrow a host from the wax museum, or because there isn’t a single piece of bombast that will sweep the night, or maybe it’s because I’m bitter not be nominated for my screenplay that didn’t get made into a movie. I remember the first time someone I loved broke up with me. I knew I had a vital choice to make: to be bitter or to be happy that I had known great love.
Betsy Lerner 