Letters to the Editor
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Continuing An Overwhelmingly Negative Response..
My comment is unedited, has no shape. AND . . . I am not getting paid to write it."
I'm a creative professional. Among these occupations, writing demands the simplest preparation and organization skill and research suggests language processing is a measure of overall intelligence. It's no longer a dating preference, but more than clean clothes, a ruler of dignity or sentience.
I'm not a writer, being compensated isn't a motivation nor is drawing attention here, but notice anything preceding my signature suggests I graduated elementary school. I'm not alone, it is simplistic for others in the same way, who probably also share a quirk of suddenly having reached their wpm ceiling as the act of typing became familiar.
The question arises though, if you can't structure paragraphs, have naught depth or insight outside your whim, what motivates your interest to write? Besides unjustified money and attention, in which case you've distinguished yourself in several definitive ways: sham, imitation, fake, deceitful, imposter.
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Where Crosley might have started
The dichotomy of the college roommates was nicely drawn. The one wanting the sweat and mess of getting laid, the other trying to find her sensuality while squeaky clean in the shower. As fictional characters, perhaps, it would have been interesting to see where these embodiments of two competing American impulses would have ended.
I know squeaky clean save-it-until-marriage types with secret orgies beneath their (chastity) belts. Though this fictional roommate is probably a dyke, at least of the temporary college variety.
I know LOTS of girls with scores of notches on their thongs who are now fiercely monogamous mothers.
I think this author should have seen this memoir as a first draft for a novel.
I just re-read On The Road, which I think is the grandfather of all this type of memoir/fiction, and thought, so what? I realized that I was reading Kerouac as though his memoir/novel was published today, and thought how unremarkable it was. On the other hand, the more polished, ficitonalized Dharma Bums reads better now, though many consider it his dumbed down work.
Given the cacaphony of the blogosphere confessions, what seems missing is the interior spaces that writing should take us into. There is a hint of that here in Crosley's observations, but it's just a start of a start.
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heh heh
I'd like to get into HER interior space.
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Sloan Crosley
You're the ginchiest.
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Sweet Satisfaction
The only thing better than Sloane Crosley's writing is hearing you people bitch about it.
Hah! She wrote a book about her life and somebody published it. Can't say the same for you loooosers. Double hah!
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@ Tobbar
You're right, Tobbar.
We don't all get to be affluent, "Caucasoid" women who enjoy taking our big butts on schmoozing trips through the demi-mondes of NYC publishing parties, secure in the knowledge that the more our butt schmoozes, the more people will forget that the best we'll be able to do is write quirkily and philosophize tritely about the meaningful life experiences our immersion in this milieu perpetually prevents us from having.
Shame on us.
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Say What You Want, This Is The Best Humor Essay I've Read In A Loooong Time
Where to begin? With pity for the frustrated writers out there? Nahhh. First off, I have never ever seen such a group of commenters (that Salon calls this the "letters" section is a joke and has also struck me as a joke) so proud of themselves. The first rule of book reviewing or any kind of criticism is to take the word for what it is and analyze it within the parameters of that work. Not to sit around and thing of what you WISH it was or had been. And who knows? This is an excerpt. Perhaps whatever your heart desires to make it less fluffy or whatever is in the actual essay. I don't know and I don't particularly care. Because I just preordered a copy of I WAS TOLD THERE'D BE CAKE from Powell’s. And that is how I intend on finding out. Like a real reader who loves books. Clearly some commenters are New York City-based and obsessed with other profiles on Ms. Crosley because I was so confused by some of the refrences here, I wound up Googling her myself. And this isn't about being mean to some poor girl. I don't care what the hell happens to this author, frankly. The web isn't about being "nice."
Except that I would like to see more and more of her writing if it's anything like this. But maybe that's the trouble with first person pieces of this nature? You wouldn't confuse a single article for the definitive work on a subject but here, Crosley's essay is under fire because it means she's not black enough, not poor enough, not smart enough, too slutty, too prude, too clever, not clever enough. WHO CARES? The play’s the thing, remember? The subject is not the most original I have ever seen, no. I will freely give everyone who mentioned that due credit. But the voice…try rereading it. If you feel the same and that it sucks, that’s fine. But the writing is truly excellent and well above Salon's standards. But I do suppose this is what Sloane gets: wrestle with pigs and you're bound to get dirty.
Jeff.
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Pretty girl can't get laid?
I KNOW this is fiction writing...