Letters to My Agent

Dear Betsy,

Integral to every author’s publicity “platform” is a smoldering photo of the writer after he has finished a 3-day stint of sleepless novelizing, but before he has tortuous, intellectual sex with you, the reader. But as a woman, comma, I resent and/or reject that image. (Even though my name is Robin and once someone wrote  my Westword editor demanding that she remove “that schmuck Mr. Chotzinoff.”) As for  female author photo options, I don’t have a tiny triangular face alive with bird-like curiosity, or, alternatively, a whole lot of shiny hair and cleavage. (Since Weider Publications hasn’t signed me yet, my not-too-shabby lats are irrelevent.) Yet I’m not afraid to dirty my feet in the sordid waters of self-promotion! My new “brand” is hot off the presses, or the platen, or whatever. Check out this indelible image!

Yes! This is me leading a Rosh Hashanah service last week, premiering the 21st-century Baba-Yaga-in-a-prayer-shawl look! Please start promoting me as “an Eastern European witch,” “the amateur cantor with the Brillo-rific tresses” and/or “neither Hansel nor Gretel’s favorite person, but you’ll love her.” And if those What Not to Wear people call, slam down the phone. We need to stay on message.