I can’t seem to get too riled up one way or the other about that anonymous author’s sob story on Salon. Maybe it’s just the Effexor.*
On the one hand, as my friend CAAF notes, the author “managed to be neither charming nor profound. Just kind of solipsistic & drudge-like.” (So the Julie Hecht theory advanced at Gawker sounds about right.)
On the other hand, I always like to read things that fuel my own negativity, self-loathing, and belief that there’s no point in finishing my novel draft since I’m just going to have to stay in my current job until it’s farmed out to India. The Salon article fits the bill perfectly.
Several correspondents have suggested that the author peppered her piece with disinformation to prevent readers from uncovering her identity. Maybe, but I doubt it. She’s trying to sell a new book, guys. She wants another $150k advance.
She’s on pins & needles, hoping you’ll figure out who she is, spread her name across the Internet, and boost sales of her fourth book so she can sell the fifth and quit the — gasp — day job.
* Actually, I’m too attached to my anxiety and depression to try antidepressants.