The backlash against
book-publicist-turned-essayist Sloane Crosley began with a November 2007
article in The New York Observer which depicted her as the prom queen of
publishing, on the verge of becoming a bestselling author like her clients Toni
Morrison and Jonathan Lethem. The headline proclaimed, only slightly
tongue-in-cheek, "Now she's got her own book—and shiny hair that will
make you weep!" Industry insiders, sensitive to the same currents that lead
film critics to rant about the career trajectory of Jessica Alba, needed no
further ammunition to dismiss her as an insider-darling representative of all
that ails the publishing world.
Scorn goes a long way, but
the charms of Crosley's essay collection I Was Told There'd Be Cake refuse to erode. Her day
job might have scored her the Lethem book-cover blurb, but her collection treats
the indignities of first jobs ("The Ursula Cookie") and bad neighbors ("The
Good People Of This Dimension") with sneaky wit. "Bastard Out Of Westchester"
explores her fascination with the bad Charlton Heston movie which prompted her
parents to name her Sloane, while "Smell This" chronicles a dessert party
forever marred by the discovery of poop on the bathroom floor, whose provenance
she cannot leave alone: "Because you have a fundamental like for your other
guests, because they are among your oldest friends, you entertain the
possibility that a stray animal, such as a feral squirrel, has broken into your
house, shat on your carpet, and left."
Mining indignities in the
pursuit of non-fiction is nothing new, and I Was Told There'd Be Cake clearly bears the marks
of its Sedarian influences. But Crosley's brush is one of polite bafflement, rather
than barely concealed nastiness. Even when she's clearly angry at an
out-of-town super or a neighbor turned one-night stand, Crosley's dry prose exhibits
a droll resignation; well, of course a locksmith would have to be called twice
in one day, it's just the natural order of things. Only the collection's one misfire,
the bridesmaid chronicle "You On A Stick," pushes her natural skepticism over
into meanness. Which suggests that the Observer's estimation of Crosley
as "nice" wasn't too far off.