As reported this morning by Slunch, it has become almost impossible to hate Sloane Crosley. Until now. Josie Harris, a 34-year-old paralegal, has decided enough is enough, and has decided to commit her energies to hating Sloane Crosley.
“There is nobody in the literary world I despise more than Sloane,” said Harris. “Nobody can be that fucking nice all the time.”
What’s considerably astonishing is that Harris came out as a Crosley hater despite being on a considerable daily regiment of antidepressants.
But is Harris simply being contrarian?
“No. I read two sentences that Sloane wrote in the Village Voice and I was so angry that it caused me to place my pet hamster in the microwave and watch it explode. This is not a common reaction that I get from writers. But Sloane’s words caused me to do this. I was depressed for weeks. And I blame her for running me over the edge.”
Harris plans to advance her protests further. Mass book burnings of I Was Told There’d Be Cake, followed by a giant Sloane Crosley effigy in front of the Random House building. She has also issued an open challenge to enter into a kickboxing match with Crosley. Crosley, however, has not responded.
The Call by Yannick Murphy: The always interesting author of Here They Come and Signed, Mata Hari returns with a novel that whips up a worldview from a rather quirky set of limitations: namely, the call logs that a veterinarian maintains as his son is unexpectedly put into a coma and an unforgiving economy denies him work. What emerges is a surprisingly optimistic, often funny, and very moving account on how one family uses acceptance and forgiveness as a way to atone for hard knocks. (
Birds of Paradise by Diana Abu-Jaber: Forget Franzen and Eugenides. If you're looking for a social novel that counts, Diana Abu-Jaber is the author you're looking for. Building from the free-form exploration of consciousness and identity in Crescent and the gripping procedural structure of Origin, Abu-Jaber's latest novel is her finest, equally fluent with gutterpunk culture and smarmy real estate men. It has been suggested by The Washington Post's Ron Charles that you will likely gain some pounds while reading this novel. This is certainly true. Abu-Jaber's description of food is so precise that it often made me want to do more cooking. But I very much admired the way in which Abu-Jaber presents all her characters as unwitting victims of rough capitalism, which permits them some dignity even as they perform terrible acts.
The Last of the Live Nude Girls by Sheila McClear: This memoir isn't so much about the decline of the Times Square peepshow, as it is about one young woman's efforts to pull herself up by by her bootstraps when presented with few economic options. Filled with self-introspective candor and a quiet dignity, McClear's story is one that might befall any of us in these volatile times. While McClear does get back on her feet, her book leads one contemplating the terrible fates of other young women now moving to New York and falling into deadlier vocations. (
Here’s my problem with her, and i’m just 17.
I am her, and I’m just 17.
She writes like a teenager that’s trying too hard to sound cute. She’s trying to fit into some trendy demographic but just falls out of place, despite of the references to her “pot dealer by night and paralegal at a major law firm by day” boyfriend’s minor coke habit. Shut up. She also brags a lot, and throws in a lot of subtle references to her naturally-skinny body. It’s unnecessary especially considering her really big head. She’s clearly trying to combine pseudo-hipster references along with fashion-esque standards that don’t make her look like too much of a feminist while maintaining a literary charm. Sadly, she’s not cool enough to be sub-cultured or pretty enough to win us over, nor is she “clever.” Well, not for The Cool Kids anyway. Sloane is just out of high school and probably grateful that her skin has improved. Good for her. I feel a lingering sense of guilt for trying to get away with sh*t like that in my high school creative writing class. It’s THAT obvious. I can’t for when I grow up.
Here’s my problem with her, and i’m just 17.
I am her, and I’m just 17.
She writes like a teenager that’s trying too hard to sound cute. She’s trying to fit into some trendy demographic but just falls out of place, despite of the references to her “pot dealer by night and paralegal at a major law firm by day” boyfriend’s minor coke habit. Shut up. She also brags a lot, and throws in a lot of subtle references to her naturally-skinny body. It’s unnecessary especially considering her really big head. She’s clearly trying to combine pseudo-hipster references along with fashion-esque standards that don’t make her look like too much of a feminist while maintaining a literary charm. Sadly, she’s not cool enough to be sub-cultured or pretty enough to win us over, nor is she “clever.” Well, not for The Cool Kids anyway. Sloane is just out of high school and probably grateful that her skin has improved. Good for her. I feel a lingering sense of guilt for trying to get away with sh*t like that in my high school creative writing class. It’s THAT obvious. I can’t wait for when I grow up.