In case you missed this gem from NYFW, we wouldn’t want any reader to miss out on this anonymous love letter to a publicist from an editor. Check back tomorrow to see a publicist have their moment to take on an editor. Now let’s get schooled…
I don’t believe we’ve met, thank god, but I’m writing in response to your 12th email of the week. As you may recall, the subject line is marked URGENT: CROCS PRESS PREVIEW, and while I was confused when I opened the email to learn that the aforementioned appointment was six weeks away—in another financial quarter, seriously?—I’m doing my best to understand. Convincing me to air kiss your D-list clients is your livelihood; I get it. Not everyone can sign Dior. But do me a favor, and think. First, read my magazine. We don’t even cover flip flops, much less porous rubber clogs beloved by world-weary chefs and the preschool set. Save you energy for a relevant pitch—i.e., something from an advertiser. Even a potential!
And now, a little bit about my Inbox: I try not to keep track of the number of emails I receive each hour, but according to my assistant, that number is somewhere between 40 and 50. The senders whose missives I actually read, in order of importance: my boss’ boss, my publisher, a higher-up at PR Consulting or KCD asking for my size (sadly, those queries are all too rare, hint hint), my therapist, my assistant, my boss. Everything else is basically sent to the abyss.
But if you want to ensure that your little note will be filed away directly in the Trash, do any of the following: copy my boss, use the word “follow-up,” type anything in all caps, refer to me as “hon,” “sweetie,” or “girl” (I’m careening towards 40, show some respect) ask about my weekend (haven’t you heard of Instagram), invite me out for drinks. I haven’t even found the time to have sex in the past month, so chillaxing with agenda-driven strangers is about as likely to happen as me wearing foam clogs to Altuzzara.
In closing, I can’t make it, because we are slammed with an issue close for the next few decades, or until I get laid off, which, given the state of things, will probably happen before your press preview. But thanks for checking in.