What is the point of writing a book when you can hire someone to write it for you? What is the point of hiring a writer to write a book if your sole claim to fame is your hair worn in tendrils around your face? (A hairdo so popular it’s known in Japan as “the Tinsley” as in Tinsley Mortimer.)
And just who is Tinsley Mortimer? A bona fide ‘madcap heiress.’ Once married to the scion of New York’s wealthiest families…so old money the Mortimer name may appear in the newspaper only on the day they announce your final departure…Tinsley sought fame and a reality show instead of suzani footstools and interiors by Muriel Brandolini.
Now Tinsley is overseeing the writing of her novel in addition to designing handbags and serving as a hair muse. Readers, I am seriously irked. Brilliant writers are submitting their queries without even the courtesy of a rejection letter and a madcap heiress moves right up to #1 on the bestseller list because of her blondness.
It all came out last week in the Style section of The New York Times. Tinsley wants to be taken seriously although she still wears teensy weensy bikinis for the cameras. Her novel Southern Charm will be published in May by Simon & Schuster. Simon & Schuster? Shame, shame on you Simon & Schuster.
The publishing world has gone to seed. The great writers have been consigned to the rubbish heap or to self-publishing their work using the same printer as The Metropolitan Museum of Art and living on a grate next to a halal stand on Madison Avenue where the kindly cart owner will throw her a burnt scrap at the end of the day.
Can we fight back? How can we when the tsunami of daughters of Beatles and well-known alcoholic writer/fathers are churning out their masterpieces and blue-chip publishing houses like Simon & Schuster are having bidding wars to publish this crap.
We must adjust. We must comply. We must marry well. There is no other way to obtain the holy imprimatur of a once-admired publishing house.