Betsy Lerner's Blog, page 18

When There’s No Getting Over that Rainbow

NASA

Writers often ask me how important is it to have connections to get published. 100%. For as long as I’ve been in publishing I only know of two books that were discovered in the slush pile (though I’m sure there must be more) Ordinary People and The Twilight series. Not great odds. This is what I say: get connected! First, join a writer’s group and get feedback from other writers. You shouldn’t be approaching agents or publishers unless your work has been workshopped and revised. There are also excellent freelance editors who will edit, give feedback and make agent recommendations. Subscribe to Publisher’s Marketplace where you can see every deal and who represented it. You can see who the agent of record is and go to their websites, get their vibe, research their clients and get their contact information. You can read lots of agents’ blog for meat and potatoes advice. There are hundreds of writing programs, festivals, workshops. You aren’t going to meet your mentor or agent there first time out. But you will soak up a lot of information. I’m still friendly with writers I met at conferences 20 years ago. Part of your writing life and getting connected includes building your community.

Do you have a writing community?

The First the Last My Everything

Seekping.com

This is not a test. I read the following sentence today in a memoir: My aunt covered me with a white blanket. It stopped me in my tracks. Why did the writer use the adjective “white?” What difference did it make? What did it tell me about the scene? Did it have any emotional resonance. Did it help furnish the scene? I started running through other options: a red blanket, a cotton blanket, a woolen blanket, a satin blanket, an LL Bean blanket, an old blanket, a raggedy blanket, a quilted blanket, a blood stained blanket, a goo goo bear blanket, a banky. The whole reason to use adjectives as far as I can tell is to add veracity through specificity. If you’re going to tell me the color of the blanket, it needs to do some work.

Agree? Disagree?

What Goes Up Must Come Down

Advanced Television.com

When my mother first read my memoir, Food and Loathing, she said it was a pack of lies. I told her to write her own pack of lies. She hated the book because I wrote about my mental illness, hospitalization, and so forth. Over the years, many writers tell me that they can’t write their memoir until their parents die. Some wonder if they can use a pseudonym. Eventually my mother came to respect my book. She received letters from parents whose kids had been hospitalized, or suffered from depression, and in once case committed suicide. They said I was brave, honest, and my book helped them. I don’t think I’m cavalier, but I also believe that if you’re a writer you have to find a way to write what matters most.

What matters most to you?

The Pajama Game is the Game I’m In

World Market

Love writing, hate writing. Love revising. Hate revising. Love being alone. Write in coffee shops. Outline everything. Never outline. Longhand! Keyboard! Writes everyday. Waits for inspiration. Me, I write in my pajamas with a hot cup of lemon and honey. I don’t open my email until I’m done. Then I belong to my email. I’m email’s bitch.

What are you wearing?

Blowing you the Jasmine in my Mind

Wiki

I hate it when people go off social media and make a big announcement. It assumes that anyone cares in the first place. That being said, I just went off Facebook, Tik Tok, Instagram and Twitter. The four horsemen of the apocalypse. I was so completely addicted that I’d wake up in the middle of the night and watch Amber’s Heard’s testimony for a half hour and then scroll through hundreds of pictures of Tom Holland and Zendaya. I’m not off because I want to be but because I have to be.

What’s your poison?

I Don’t Know How to Love Him

wiki

Am I high? Am I manic? Am I in love with the sound of my own voice? My fingers tapping a lullaby? Did I show up fifteen minutes late and sweating, my mask glued to my face. Did I talk too fast? Too much? Did I say I love being an agent? Am I wearing my reading glasses? Am I blind in one eye? People say they love how real I am on the this blog. Am I? Am I? Isn’t every sentence a perfect lie? A seduction? A box within a box within a box. Thirty plus years in publishing plus one golden ring. I have a lot to be grateful for and yet.

Are you real?

Life Could be a Dream Sweetheart

YouTube

Blurbs. Having a good blurb week. Two of my clients with books coming out in the fall have been getting some terrific quotes. It’s the first sign from the outside world that the baby is beautiful. It’s long known that most blurbs are the result of strings being pulled, favors called in, and connections. This is not wrong. But sometimes you get a blurb from a writer or expert with no connection to the material and it’s the most amazing feeling. It’s the Sally Field You Really Like me Moment.

Do you read the blurbs on books? Do they influence you in any way?

I Sometimes Wish I’d Never Been Born at All

My mother wanted to be a writer. She even had a pen named picked out. She never acted on that desire, but she loved reading and going to readings. As she put it, she loved hearing articulate people speak. She religiously read her New Yorker. She didn’t have a literary vocabulary per se, but she knew what she liked. She made us look up every word we didn’t know on a dictionary with a broken spine that took up residence on the pass-through between the kitchen and den. I was much older before I connected my love of poetry and writing with my mother.

What did you get from your mother?

People Say I’m the Life of the Party

Dearest readers of this blog.

I apologize for my disappearance (if you missed me). I’ve been doing something really radical. I’ve been…wait for it…writing. Why, you ask? For cherries, for pennies, for a flat ass and gnarled hands? Is there any point in writing. No. Is there any reward? No. Is there any redemption, love, admiration, movie deals? No, no, no, no. Then why do you keep doing it?

A man went to the circus and saw how diligent the man sweeping up the shit was and offered him a job in his clean, air-conditioned office building for twice the money and health benefits. The man refused. The man who offered him the job couldn’t understand why he was wouldn’t come. The man sweeping the shit replied, “What and leave show business?”

Guys, I’m in this ratfuck of a business for 35 years this June. I’ve learned a lot. I’ve lost a lot. I’m grateful and in awe that I didn’t get picked off or go to law school. I still love the smell of the grease paint.

I’d Trade All my Tomorrows for One Single Yesterday

If you’ve been hanging around this blog, you know that I hate to talk process. I don’t want to know if you write in the morning or the evening, If you write by hand or on a Remington. You use a Moleskin? Who cares? I’m like if you’re writing great. Bring me the broom. There is no excuse that interests me and the reason is no one cares if you write. For me, it’s liberating that no one cares. It’s not cruel or unfair. It’s your tightrope, your ledge, it’s your nest of blue thread. Is writing holy? Is coffee? Your computer whirring. I’ve heard so many excuses why people can’t write over the years. They are all boring: illness, weather, family, pets, children, work, lack of privacy, isolation, envy, worry, anxiety, psoriasis. It would be interesting if anyone cared. This is all you need to know: your writing is sacred. It’s your covenant and sacrament. It’s your good name.

What makes you interesting?