A NEW YORK ESCORT’S CONFESSIONS
I don’t generally read blogs about people I don’t know personally. Obviously this is because most people are terrible writers with boring lives. Ever try just hitting blogs completely at random? I did once, and it’s not very rewarding. (But I did notice a surprisingly high proportion of Spanish blogs, so maybe I’m missing out.)
Now I’m not saying that most people have lives that are so essentially boring, so hideously common that no amount of authorial ingenuity or mastery over capitalization could produce an interesting story. Maybe that’s true, but I’m not saying it. If it is true, then I’ve never met those people, thank God.
Sometimes what’s interesting about a person’s life is obvious, and occasionally that person is a good enough writer to make their daily activities worth reading about. This is true of Alexa, the narrator of A NEW YORK ESCORTS CONFESSIONS.
Some of her readers think her posts are pure fiction, which is possibly the highest compliment that can be paid to a journal-style blog. The smartypantses cry contrivance! because some of the posts are a bit fantastical. For example, this post is pretty overwrought; also, a professional escort who’s never heard of a golden shower? *boggle*
In the comments to that last post, Wes claims that he’s seen through the author’s deception, and then asks the Alexa-construct to provide arguments for it’s existence. What argument could be provided? And what was the purpose behind the accusation? Was it just an attempt to feel superior by showing everybody that you’ve figured out the magician’s trick? Or was it perhaps a veiled request for “proof” in the form of a blowjob?
I must admit, I’m also curious about whether the blog is fictional or not. When I read the posts with the idea that it might be fiction, it sounds pretty fictional. The writing is weak by fiction standards, but excellent if truly written by a “twenty-something New York escort,” who “loves Prada, Seven jeans, and Jimmy Choos,” (whatever the fuck those are). If I’m going to read lies, my standards are much higher I guess. Reading the site once with the idea that it’s true, and again with the idea that it’s an invention, the difference is striking.
In any case, I think shouting “fake!” is poor form. Frankenstein is composed of personal letters written by the characters, but nobody complains that Robert Walton is just a phony Mary Shelley. Then again, Mary Shelley’s name is right there on the cover of the book. She is telling lies honestly.