Why is everybody so angry with Emily Gould? Is it the excessive attention she is getting for her smart and observant semi-autobiographical novel about two female friends navigating their late 20s, as disillusionment beckons? Is it because almost everywhere you look, there is coverage about Gould that documents her, up to now, pretty lucky life?

Many magazine profiles show her pouting; she is an attractive Jewish girl with large tattoos and overly serious eyes that conceal her inner turbulence. Is some of the bitter resentment surfacing on the Web and in many book reviews simply still lingering anger from those who remember her days as a snarky blogger for famous pop culture commentator Gawker, where she took potshots at many of her colleagues and other New York luminaries? Or is it simply Gould’s seeming refusal to be impressed with much of anything? Indeed, she possesses a kind of inbred cynicism and coolness that in high school allowed her to pass notes to her friends with catty and cruel observations about other students and teachers, seemingly without much remorse. This talent served her well at Gawker, but as Gould matured, she wanted a creative life; a serious writer’s life; one that required quiet contemplation and the ability to live without the adrenalin rush of the Internet.


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