Lauren Weisberger, the Woman Who Killed Chick Lit
The New York Observer has found that the devil wearing Prada this fall, this glorious autumnal moment in Publishing History, is none other than Lauren Weisberger. Lauren’s new novel had not even reached the shelves before she and the horse she rode in on were savaged on Gawker. Gawker. The question at hand seems to have its origins in this regard: Lauren is not in, she’s out. In fact, she was never in, never an integral part of the party savant scene. Her first novel was simply a Roman a clef, drawing in great thirsty gulps of Anna Wintour and what it’s really like working at Vogue. Further, the NYO continues, Lauren’s new novel is bad. Bad to the bone. Not only is the novel bad, Lauren bad, her publisher bad, she has swept aside years of marketing construct and destroyed chick lit.
Now what? I have some ideas. The alternative to the Roman a clef is job hunting. Because I need to know what it’s like to work for Anna Wintour, I’m applying for a job at Vogue. Here are some of my qualifications. I wear clothes. And, Ms. Wintour, I am the sole ( or is it soul?) of discretion. I would never betray your trust with a thinly disguised memoir. Hiring me may seem counter-intuitive, but fashion is in my blood. Once, on Seventh Avenue, I dodged one of the racks of designer dresses those schmucks had tipped over and I yelled, “hey, that’s haute couture, fool.”
There are a few problems so let’s address them, get them out of the way. I’m unfamiliar with cell phone use, require frequent and lengthy breaks for stress management purposes, I don’t ‘do’ Starbucks, but I do promise to hate Lauren Weisberger and all her works. I also think Vogue should chase down middle aged balding fat guys as a target demographic now that baseball is winding down. Put a fat guy on the cover, Anna. That’s what I’m talking about.