A Salon.com reader on Sloane Crosley’s essay The best laid plans:


Ugh. Boring and trifling

The point of this twee twaddle is Sloane Crosley is a pretty young thing who works as a publicist for a major publisher and knows how to work connections, but, surprise, when she’s not flacking or reviewing she’s got very little to say. If this collection of wispy non-events is any evidence, her book must be a nearly obscene example of a comfortable privileged life inflated to book length.

She takes SEVEN paragraphs to describe a failed eight word pickup line in a library.

I’m sure executive types find her ability to spin wittily about banal experiences refreshing, but if I’m going to read self-obsessed anecdotes, I want a hot mess like Elizabeth Wurtzel. This makes Prozac Nation seem like freaking Balzac. Sloane is the anti-Wurtzel – trying to seem dynamic in her complete lack of shading. It’s excruciating.

And that’s probably why she’s got a book – on Riverhead, no less, which really seems enamored of the bankable white girls. Of course she’s smarter than Margaret Seltzer and writes about stuff which is beyond verification. What evidence can there be of not hooking up with a guy in a library?

Except there’s her claim to have a spatial learning disability. Gawker has expressed doubt about this though it’s all speculation: http://gawker.com/news/diagnoses/whats-really-wrong-with-sloane-crosley-327295.php

Funny how she doesn’t mention it in this essay.