Men can get laid because they write well. But, says Curtis Sittenfeld (a female author), there’s a shortage of groupies flinging themselves at female authors. She solicits advice from a friend on how to attract fans who worship her as she once did David Foster Wallace, but eventually concludes:
it’s too late for me. Last spring a co-worker at the school where I teach part time took the photograph that will appear on my novel’s jacket, and I’m afraid the picture suggests less ”Let’s have a drink after the reading” and more ”Ninth graders, your ‘Macbeth’ papers are due on Friday.” Besides, the truth is that I kind of admire the Bukowski tack. I mean, where’s the victory in getting people to love you because you’re cute? Put on lipstick and a short skirt and, hell, you can get hit on without even going to the trouble of writing a book. But if I can show up for readings belching and reeking, arranging myself in unbecoming positions, and still manage to win adulation? Now that would be equality.