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Why am I not as famous as Stephanie Klein?

Well, call me pea-green and make me into a pot of soup. I am simply simmering with envy over Stephanie Klein’s fame and book deal. We have so much in common, and yet here I founder in the Technorati backwaters hoping against hope that someday in the far, far future a literary journal might publish one of my essays.

I don’t get it. We both blog. We’re both Barnard grads. I too have had red hair. I too was a fat child. I have lived in New York. We probably ate at the same deli! And most of all, I have shared the most intimate details of my life with you, gentle readers. How, Old-Testament-style, I hate one neighbor and love another; how I hate my last haircut and love sales at Talbot’s; how I feel sad when bad things happen, and how much I like online bibliographic software such as RefWorks.

O.k., maybe I do see why this blog has not lead to fame, a New York Times article, or a book deal. But I can change, starting today!

First, let me adopt a more au courant writing style. No more biblish, no more tiresome polysyllabic nonsense, no more mundane middle-class mutterings. From now on, in the words of Ms. Klein, “Yeah, right. Okay. Whatever.” No more talk of buying sports bras at Target (though mind you, I did finally settle on the two-for-$8 deal and I like these bras better than much more expensive over-the-shoulder-boulder-holders I have purchased in the past. See how casual I can be?). No more free verse. No more discussion about the American Library Association. And many more kicky phrases, such as “I love etymology almost as much as karaoke.” (Why can’t Language Log come up with one-liners like that?) Not to mention Klein’s soliloquy to her date that made my toes curl with envy: “I just spent half a day telling you, communicating with you, saying things that were really hard for me to admit, and then, you apologize, say it won’t happen again. Then, BAM! You pull a fcuking Emril on me.”

Then–let’s get to why people really read Klein’s blog–there’s the sex and the other lurid personal details (because it certainly isn’t the writing, and is this what Barnard turns out these days?). Yes. As soon as Sandy comes home this afternoon I will ask for her permission to write about our sex life, past, present, future, and imagined. She is very supportive of my writing endeavors (oh dear; “endeavor” is not a very Klein sort of word) and I am sure she will agree that splashing our personal life onto this blog, where it will then have a digital half-life in perpetuity, is a reasonable exchange for my personal gain, particularly for a book that very important people will read for at least one season.

I know it awaits me: the celebrity, the book deal, the book jacket with the pink cover and the high heel and martini glass on it. It can be mine! I just have to–BAM!–change my tiresome ways.

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