A new pilot called Literary Superstaris being planned. The pilot stars Jenna Elfman. The “superstar” in question is a publicist. No doubt watered down hijinks will ensue, with Elfman inexplicably living in a lavish Central Park West apartment. Because we can certainly count on Hollywood for financial verisimilitude, can’t we?
Like a zombie that keeps getting up after you shoot it several times in the chest with a pump-action shotgun, the damn OJ book is still alive.
Who’d be a critic? Yeah, good question. Particularly when you’re as dishonest as Meg Rosoff. Apparently, Rosoff “only reviews books I really like. It’s cowardly, I know, but I figure it’s not my job to make people unhappy.” As a critic who tries to remain as honest, discerning, enthusiastic and constructive as I can, as someone who pours blood, sweat and tears into any freelancing assignment, I can’t begin to express my infuriation here. If Rosoff is terrified of making people unhappy, then perhaps she should pursue a career as a publicist, since she clearly prefers the straightforward hand job-as-book review rather than an honest day’s labor. The Literary Saloon has more.
In all fairness, Rosoff is first and foremost a novelist. And a very, very good one.
Oh, and she’s not talking about writing _dishonest_ reviews, just saying that she doesn’t write _negative_ ones anymore. She’s in a place where she can turn down assignments for books she doesn’t like. I don’t think that’s a hangable offense.