Betsy Lerner's Blog, page 27

Don’t Throw Our Love Away

In the sixth grade, I asked my favorite English teacher if I could try some creative writing. She told me to write a poem or a story and bring it to her. Thing is, I meant calligraphy. I thought fancy lettering was called creative writing. Being both proud and embarrassed, I pretended that’s what I meant and brought her a poem the next day. She was blown away and encouraged me to keep writing. That’s my dirty little secret. This whole career is predicated on a massive misunderstanding.

What’s your origin story?

Think of Everything You’ve Got

I had my three month check up with my psychopharmacologist today. How am I? Steady. Sturdy. Stable. Same. He and I go back thirty years. We’re like an old married couple. I know he can tell how I am from the sound of my voice more than anything I say. When I found Dr. Mas, it was after ten years of misdiagnosis. Many doctors, many meds, many bouts of mania and depression that looked like weight game and weight loss and bad writing and worse sex and navy blue backless dresses, and loneliness and isolation and confusion. What helped me trust Dr. Mas, even though I really resisted the diagnosis and the medication, was that he cared about my writing. He knew that people complained of Lithium making them flat, robbing them of their creativity. He said he would work with me and find the right dosage. For thirty years I’ve been steady, sturdy, stable. Same. I’ve written three books and co-wrote three others. I have ideas all the time. I take my meds every day and even though I don’t go to the moon, I don’t sink beneath the waves.

What keeps you going?

But Now It’s Just Another Show.

I spoke to a very young agent today who reached out for advice about agenting. It was an all too obvious reminder that I am old, that whatever was going to happen has mostly happened, that I no longer have to worry about certain things, that I know how to do my job and give advice more often I seek it. My hair is graying, my back likes to complain, and when I have a pencil in my hand I know exactly what to do with it. I guess that’s something.

What advice would you give a young writer?

Thank You Thank You Silence

This week I kept hitting a wall with my writing project. I could barely concentrate. I drank an oil tanker worth of diet soda. I pruned my bookcase. I pruned my manuscript pile. I shopped for bras online. I literally drove to the nearby Krauser’s and bought more diet soda, three bulls eyes, and three tootsie rolls. I cleaned my monitor. I cleaned my glasses. I printed out the pages and started reading them aloud, fell asleep. I had a saintly cup of green tea. I walked the dog twice. I put away two baskets of laundry. I watched a Keanu Reeves movie.

What do you do when you hit a wall?

Take My Hand Take My Whole Life Too

True confession: I’m in love with Keanu Reeves. Have been since Point Break. Every day a picture of him shows up in my Instagram feed. Bewhiskered, clean shaven, on his motorcycle, walking through an airport. Sometimes the clip comes up where Stephen Colbert asks him what do you think happens when we die. Keanu takes a deep breath then says, I know the ones who love us will miss us.

What do you think happens?

May You Build a Ladder to the Stars

Thanks to everyone who left a remembrance of Shanna. It all rang true. It was wonderful to spend a few more moments with her. She was all that and more. I guess I want to talk about suicide. I was 24 when I made an attempt, one semester into graduate school, having battled depression since I was fifteen, romanced by writers who who took their own lives, Plath, Sexton, Woolf. My love of their work, Lowell too, fused with my depression. I didn’t know if I was a cliche or a chicken. I thought you had to be brave to take your life. I was so ashamed when I failed. People say, “it was just a cry for help,” when you don’t succeed at taking your life. It’s so fucked up. It’s like they’re disappointed. As if a cry for help is pathetic and weak. A cry for help is the most profound thing of all. I don’t know the final days or hours of Shanna’s life. I don’t know about the last days of George’s life. Did they go off their meds? Did one voice crowd out all others? Did not wanting to live become wanting to die? Did wanting to die become a one way street. For anyone out there reading this post, please cry for help. Please get help. I am here thanks to Lithium, Lamictal, and years of therapy. But mostly the meds. Sorry, therapists. But all the insights about my childhood didn’t put the floor beneath me or the ceiling above me.

I love you.

When You’re Sure You’ve Had Enough of this Life, Hang On

It breaks my heart to share with you, beloved readers of this blog, that we lost Shanna Mahin last week when she took her life. She was an early, rambunctious, defiant, hilarious and generous member of this community. She was demanding in the best possible way, critical in the smartest possible way, searingly honest and screamingly funny. She once dared me to a weight gain competition. We were yo-yo dieting twins separated at birth. I don’t know the circumstances that led to this tragic and final act. Beloved Shanna, fuck fuck fuck. You were dearly loved and will be sorely missed. I am so sorry we lost you. I want to say one thing to anyone struggling out there: life wants you at least as much as death. Life wants you at least as much as death. If you are struggling, get help. There is help. And there is hope.

Please leave a memory of Shanna or any words you’d like to celebrate this brilliant writer’s life.

National Suicide Prevention Hotline 800-273-8255

Must Be the Clouds in My Eyes

I finished the revision of a chapter today that I’ve been working on for weeks. How do I know? My cuticles are bloody, my skin is blotchy, I’ve been wearing the same clothes for days. I’ve printed it out, read it out loud, forced myself to go back and check facts and rewrite sections that were slacking. I deleted A LOT. I ran it under the scanner and took out all the too cute or clever lines. Except one. Let’s see if it flies with the editor. Some people believe revision is more difficult than writing. Some feel it’s where the magic happens. I feel wiped.

What’s your revision policy?

We’d Like to Take You Home with Us

“The Launching of Rochelle Epstein” was my single attempt at a novel in 1987. I squeezed out about 30 pages before the thing collapsed on itself. I’ve been working with writers for 30+ years and I don’t have a clue how fiction writers create their worlds then march their characters through them. I can help with plot points, I can tweak dialogue, or question a character’s motivation, but I don’t know how you get past the 30 page mark. How does the imagination unspool, how do the sentences get in line like a flock of geese? How do you go back the beach, the forest, the runway? The bridge table, the rest stop, the last best thing?

How the fuck does fiction work?

Ain’t It Hard When You Discover That

There’s no scale, yardstick, measurement or victory lap. No touchdown, gold star, or pat on the back. How the hell do you know if you’re making progress as a writer when you’re out there on your own? When there are no takers? I always tell my writers when I can’t place one of their books that it’s not wasted. That everything you put into every book is like a jet pilot logging hours or a musician practicing eight hours a day. That you’re not the same writer when you start the next project. You’re more limber, more agile, your sentences are more beautiful, your details more telling. You’ve learned a few more licks. That’s what I like to think. That the more writing you do the better you get.

Are you getting better?