Betsy Lerner's Blog, page 33

Wanna Change My Clothes, My Hair, My Face

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Most of my clients aren’t writing. The pandemic, the lock down, the news, finances, plans, health, relationships, the future. All these years I’ve listened to writers’ excuses for not getting writing done, for missed deadlines, , writer’s block, life.  But never anything like this. I know it’s really hard. Some people don’t have ten minutes of privacy, or a place to write, a walk to take, or a mask or a meal. But I also want to say that if you can muster the energy to write just a line or a two a day, please do it. You are writers. Shine your light.

How are you managing?

Don’t Give Up Until You Drink From the Silver Cup

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Today the world disappeared with its terrifying pandemic, the sirens, cardboard coffins, and empty shelves of brown eggs. I was intoxicated by my own fumes, working on my own projects. The thing is you have to be a little selfish to be a writer. Scratch that: you are a little selfish to be a writer. Make that a lot selfish. You can put it all away. If you had your druthers, you would never need to appease or please anyone but yourself. The world exists because you wrote about it, motherfucker. 

Who are you trying to please?

 

Love Grows Where My Rosemary Goes

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I once gave a blurb to a book I didn’t read. Why? Because I didn’t want to read it, but I wanted to be a nice guy. I know how hard it is to get blurbs when you’re just starting out. Then I met someone who told me that she read a book because of my blurb. I confessed my sin. She was really upset. What about your good name, she asked. How could you do that? 

Am I a bad person?

I’m in Love for the First Time

 

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My dearest friend, colleague, client and partner in disgust has launched a fantastic podcast called Tell Me About Your Father. It’s inspired by her superb memoir, Don’t Let me Down. I’ve been all about the mommy drama for most of my life. Finally, a conversation about the patriarchy, love, regret, abuse, daddy’s girls, the first man in our lives. The episodes are funny, moving, outrageous, in your face and by the teeth.

Got daddy issues?

I Could Hold You For a Million Years

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I just went into my daughter’s room and she was writing in a journal. Be still my heart.  I asked if she was writing wonderful things about me. No. Anything about me. No. She says she wants to get back to writing everyday. Join the club. Actually I do write every day, but I don’t want to gloat. Is there anyone more obnoxious than a person who loves to declare that she gets up at 5:30 am every day and writes until 10:30. Yes, I can go fuck myself.  

What’s in your diary?

Was It Somethin’ That Somebody Said

 

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When I was young, I thought about death a great deal. I was obsessed with writers who took their lives. I didn’t know how to negotiate the toll of self destruction until I self-destructed. And from there it was brick by brick, every day brick by brick, every month, every year a small nod to the gods that kept me going forward, kept me on my meds, staying attached.

How do you stay attached?

 

Every Time You Go Away You Take a Piece of Me With You

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I started a new book today and when I read the dedication page, I liked it immediately: “If you need this book, it is for you.” I was filled with massive need for the book. Did I ever need a book more? Had a mirror ever been tipped so precariously at my chin? And what of that pile of books I gathered in a North Fork used bookstore. Didn’t I need those, especially the one about egrets? If you need this book, it is for you. I felt both recognized and reprimanded, which is exactly how I like to feel. If you are lost, now you are found. If you are caught, now you are free. The book is Carmen Maria Machado’s In the Dream House. We’ll see about that, little lady. We’ll see if you’re the one for me.

The book you are reading, to whom is it dedicated? And does it tell you anything?

Why Do Birds Suddenly Appear

 

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Watching a documentary about Miles Davis. When he was a boy, he’d take his horn into the woods and imitate birdsong. When I was a girl I’d pull a blanket, a flashlight, notebook, pen, and snacks into a crawlspace beneath the stairs and pretend I was Anne Frank.

Do you have a seminal childhood memory that connects to your life as a writer?

And if You Want It You Can Lean on Me

 

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If your local indie bookstore is still fulfilling orders, please buy a book from them today. Buy a whole stack if you’re able. Our stores are taking a huge hit over this crisis, just imagine how it would feel if they folded. Here’s my favorite store. I’ve spent hours there browsing, had readings and taught writing workshops. The owner Roxanne Coady is a force of nature. Her store is the heartbeat of our community.

What’s your favorite local indie?

Mama Said There’d Be Days Like This

 

[image error]When I wanted to go to London for my junior year abroad, my mother sensed that I was trying to run away from my problems. I know this because she said, “You’re trying to run away from your problems.” Somehow  I finagled my way there and for the first time in my life I had my own room. A single in a dormitory in the south of London. I put up exactly one poster. I had my shelf of books (lots of Thomas Hardy). And most nights, I holed up with a novel, a bottle of cheap red wine and a sleeve of peanuts. I nursed my depression in my happy cell.

What did your mother say?