The Eckler Paradox
What makes me go to her site? Why can't I just ignore her? What bizarre compulsion forces me to see just how much she can abuse the English language?
Of course, like all reasonable women of my age, I have a hate on for Rebecca Eckler. Sure, some of it is plain old jealousy. In her mid-20s, she was given the remarkable opportunity (and sizable paycheck) of a regular column in a national newspaper. She was given reign to write about herself, her friends, her life, her generation. Unlike some who snipe that she slept her way into it, I tend to believe that she was just fortunate enough to be in the right place, with the right credentials and experience, at the right time. And great hair. So maybe I do envy her the plum job she held from 2000-2006. But that isn't why I hate her.
I hate her because she took that plum assignment and outright sucked.
Her writing was vapid. Her persona unpleasant and narcissistic. Some of her articles - including the one about her boyfriend leaving little gifts of cash around the house - so offended me as a woman that I was equal parts astonished, embarrassed and angry. This nitwit, the voice of my generation? Say what you want about Blatchford and DiManno, they aren't weak, simpering or dumb. They aren't the Paris Hiltons of journalism - and that is was Eckler was and is.
In 2006, she was dumped from the Post and has spend the last few years writing books, practising yoga, raising her daughter, accusing Judd Apatow of plagiarism and blogging. Her 'mommy blog' is Nine Pound Dictator. And it, too, sucks. The last post was about oh-so-early phone calls. If it had a point I missed it.
But I read it. Maybe it is self-flagellation. But I read it and then head straight here, to read notes from people who hate her a lot more than I do. But despite the hate, they, too, can't help reading her.
I think I need some sort of useless-anti-feminist-grammatically-challenged-writer intervention. Or maybe some yoga. Or maybe Leah MacLaren is free for a coffee later.
Of course, like all reasonable women of my age, I have a hate on for Rebecca Eckler. Sure, some of it is plain old jealousy. In her mid-20s, she was given the remarkable opportunity (and sizable paycheck) of a regular column in a national newspaper. She was given reign to write about herself, her friends, her life, her generation. Unlike some who snipe that she slept her way into it, I tend to believe that she was just fortunate enough to be in the right place, with the right credentials and experience, at the right time. And great hair. So maybe I do envy her the plum job she held from 2000-2006. But that isn't why I hate her.
I hate her because she took that plum assignment and outright sucked.
Her writing was vapid. Her persona unpleasant and narcissistic. Some of her articles - including the one about her boyfriend leaving little gifts of cash around the house - so offended me as a woman that I was equal parts astonished, embarrassed and angry. This nitwit, the voice of my generation? Say what you want about Blatchford and DiManno, they aren't weak, simpering or dumb. They aren't the Paris Hiltons of journalism - and that is was Eckler was and is.
In 2006, she was dumped from the Post and has spend the last few years writing books, practising yoga, raising her daughter, accusing Judd Apatow of plagiarism and blogging. Her 'mommy blog' is Nine Pound Dictator. And it, too, sucks. The last post was about oh-so-early phone calls. If it had a point I missed it.
But I read it. Maybe it is self-flagellation. But I read it and then head straight here, to read notes from people who hate her a lot more than I do. But despite the hate, they, too, can't help reading her.
I think I need some sort of useless-anti-feminist-grammatically-challenged-writer intervention. Or maybe some yoga. Or maybe Leah MacLaren is free for a coffee later.
posted by Jen @ 8:17 a.m.
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