Sloane Crosley is deputy director of publicity for the Random House imprint Vintage/Anchor. She is also the author of two popular books. Her debut collection of humorous essays, I Was Told There'd Be Cake, earned her much literary praise and the occasional comparison to David Sedaris. Now she's back with a follow-up. How Did You Get This Number? is less immediately funny — sometimes it's even quite sad — though it does contain an essay about a former roommate who was an anorexic kleptomaniac from whom Crosley hid her possessions by stowing them in jars of fatty peanut butter. The book publisher turned writer talks to TIME about living in New York City, her real-life version of Mean Girls and why she doesn't write chick lit.
You're a woman who writes about roommates, friendships and the occasional relationship. But you've managed to avoid the mildly derogatory label "chick lit." How did you do that?
It's funny. People often compare me to other humor essayists. They're usually quite nice comparisons; I will accept those gladly. But I am always sort of appalled at the idea of being lumped with other, more chick-y female writers. And the truth is probably that neither comparison is accurate. Basically, people are saying, "Here are two people who write funny, here they are." Or, "Here are two people who both have lady parts, here they are." And I can't pick and choose what people think of me.
You talk about living in New York City, a place where everyone is from somewhere else. You know your friends within the context of the city, but there's actually a whole other side to them.
The truth is that you don't worry about it. People come together eventually through osmosis. But it's still hard because while you're working out those details and learning about someone new, you don't sometimes know a very basic thing about them. You can know someone for months and then one day find out that they have a twin sister who lives in Minneapolis.
You write mainly about yourself, but you often come across as guarded. Is there anything you won't discuss in books?
Some of the writers I admire who seem very, very funny and very emotional to me can develop a closeness with the reader without giving too much of themselves away. Lorrie Moore comes to mind, as does David Sedaris. When they write, the reader thinks that they're being trusted as a friend. But as a writer, you can't possibly walk around thinking all these neurotic thoughts and blabbing them to everybody. I don't really think of my essays as being about myself. I know it sounds insane, but I just don't think of them as a memoir. They're essays; they're not an autobiography.
Do you worry about what people will say when you turn them into characters in your books? For example, your story about Zooey — the bitchy, emotionally significant Mean Girls–type friend that every girl has at least once during her childhood. What about her?
I do worry. I do. Dorothy Parker said that ridicule should always be used as a shield and never a sword. I think that's true. It's a difficult trick to pull off if you're writing humor, because just writing nice essays that make everyone happy isn't going to lead somewhere great. I could write about Zooey because I know I have all these other great female friendships. I feel like I have enough authority to write about what has gone off the rails. I did worry a little bit. It would be the equivalent of you going to a friend and telling her exactly what you've always thought of her.
Most of your essays are rather lighthearted, but you end the book with a story about a failed romance. Why did you do that?
I wrote that essay last. I handed in the collection and it felt incomplete — both in subject matter and in length. My editor said, "You know, we can do this the hard way or the easy way." I said, "Well, I can write about nonsense for another 8 to 15,000 words, or you can tell me what's missing. Because I can't really see it anymore." He said, "You know, you don't ever write about [your] relationships." And for the very reason that you brought up earlier about chick lit, I said, "Well, I don't do that stuff." But then I sat down and out popped a 13,000-word baby. I'm probably more proud of that essay than anything else.