So this Sunday, I idly read this Modern Love column in the NY Times and thought it was pretty daring of the guy to expose the pet language he and his ex-girlfriend used when they were alone. They come across as pretty schmoopie, and it seems like it would be a wee bit embarrassing to put such personal moments in a national newspaper. But people have different comfort levels, so I didn't really think much of it.
But now it turns out that the writer's ex didn’t know he was writing about them and their private names, until she picked up the paper herself. Can you imagine? I mean, I know plenty of people spill intimate details in their weblogs and online journals, but this is the New York Flippin' Times, the oh-so-popular Sunday edition, probably the closest thing to a national newspaper the U.S. has.
Of course, in his version, he comes off looking like the good guy, and in hers, the opposite is true. But just knowing that he mined this very personal experience for a freelance piece makes me want to take her side. And I did find his rationalization ("Of course, my essay is not the truth. It's a version that is emotionally truthful for me … The essay isn't about you or me, and wasn't written for either of us, but only about how people struggle with these things." ) not only dorky, but pretty antithetical to the whole idea of journalism. The Times' motto is not, after all, "all the emotionally truthful fiction that's fit to print."
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7 comments:
Lovedumpling think twice before you do that lest I harness the full power of the bloggosphere!!
Squishy Poopy
Isn't this a lot like the opening of Jennifer Weiner's Chick Lit Hit Good In Bed?
much snickering was heard at the ol' homestead this weekend over that article. i think the aside, "so that's what it takes to get an essay in the Times," was heard.
that piece ... makes ... my ... crawl. and i don't even have any really great shmoopy-style nicknames.
And thus the reason that none of my schmoopie stuff is on my blog.
See but here's the thing. As the woman involved here pointed out herself, writers have always mined their personal experiences for their writing, and she knew that the possibility existed for him to do just that. True, it's pretty low - Froky? Good god. Using her real name at the end? Eeeps. My thought, though, is that if she hadn't said anything about it, no one would have known for sure it was her. Apparently she doesn't use that real name. Who would she have told about Froky? Maybe some of her friends might have suspected because of his name, but it's not like the whole world would have figured it out. But now they will.
Seems to me that along with the hurt and betrayal I'm sure she really is feeling, she sees this as a good opportunity to get her name out there, as in her profession, any publicity is good publicity. Just my .02, take it for what it's worth.
And bastardizing their shared personal experience wasn't an excuse to get publicity for him? There was no real message to the story other than people can be creepy in a schmoopie sort of way.
It was entirely opportunistic of him, but I don't think she is guilty. After all, Black Table's readership is not quite the same as the The New York Times'. Had she really wanted to get her name out there, she could have written a rebuttal type piece (in the very same section) on the dangers of sharing such intimacy with a writer.
Of course he wrote about the relationship to gain publicity, I wouldn't dream of claiming otherwise. Just, if I were her, I'd have kept my mouth shut about it and maintained plausible deniability, rather than rebut in any way. The fact that she didn't do that suggested to me that she's taking her publicity where she can find it. Like I said, opinion. I also never passed judgment on her - don't assume disapproval. If she can Dooce this, then good on her.
This made me think of "Good in Bed," too. I can't imagine having someone print my intimate truths in the name of "emotional honesty." Sheesh.
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