TOP SECRET

What am I working on these days? Oh, you weren’t wondering? Well, just so you know, I can’t really talk to you about it. It’s a secret. What am furtively scribbling on this little notepad I keep in my back pocket? I could tell you, but I don’t want to disorient you with my paradigm blasting ideas quite yet. What’s that? You didn’t even ask? Well, not technically, but I can tell you’re curious. I know that when I start talking about my writing, and your face gets strained, it’s from the effort it takes not to lose yourself in the ass-rocking chord progression of my ideas as I run them by you, one by one, over and over again.

What’s this scrap book doing on the table? Oh, you didn’t notice it? Well, I’ll tantalize you with a few choice details. It’s got some character sketches in it, a few back-burner metaphors I’m working with, and a photograph of a wire fence I find particularly inspiring. Mind blown yet? No? You do a good job of disguising it.

You see, I can’t talk about my novel when it’s still in the idea stage, okay? I don’t want you to molest my genius with your grubby fingers of inquiry. It needs to germinate in a sound proofed and air locked chamber while I watch shit on Hulu, before it can fully bloom into the self conscious, underdeveloped first draft I slam dunk onto your desk and then force you to read.

So, don’t ask me what I’m working on. Because it’s TOP SECRET. Unless you really want to know?

Dear Daphne Merkin

I recently read your article in the New York Times Style Magazine called “Houston, We Have Facelift” and I just wanted to say thanks.

Thanks for writing another one of those articles in which the female author, after much hand wringing and an avalanche of rationalizations, decides that she might, in fact, be open to plastic surgery.

And then thanks for winkingly shilling us this product (where we can get it and how much it costs) under a girl talk veneer.

Thanks for contributing to a culture in which we feel inadequate upon seeing a rogue crease in our mouth area when standing in line at the fucking Au Bon Pain.

And thanks for contributing to a future in which our daughters will feel compelled to spend their lives on a heinous crash course of dogged adjustments to their faces, having a reduced compass with which to find value in themselves.

To all of the women who have written similar articles, leaning against huge couch cushions and staring sadly into the distance, thanks. It’s great to know that there are so many options for looking younger.