I love, love, love Bookslut - I love it! - but I have to respectfully disagree with Jessa Crispin. That giant sucking sound I hear when I open the New Yorker, is, in fact, Caitlin Flanagan.

Ms on Caitlin: "Back to the kitchen, circa 1950, with Caitlin Flanagan"
Alternet on Caitlin: "Stepford Wife: You've come the wrong way, baby"
Emma on Caitlin, and marriage
Maud & Friends on Caitlin, and historical rape laws
Earlier, Maud can't decide whether to cancel her New Yorker subscription or throw herself in front of a train

And, Elizabeth writes an open letter to the New Yorker on the subject, which inspires me:

If there can only be one woman writing for the New Yorker (this seems to be approaching a law of physics, as Elizabeth had to abandon her weekly counting or surrender herself to a lifetime of painful, self-destructive, eye-rolling while browsing the table of contents), who would you nominate?

Please send names and a sentence or two explaining why you would love to see YOUR WOMAN HERE write for the New Yorker to mail [at] cupcakeseries [dot] com by Friday afternoon. We'll post your submissions just before the weekend.


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