Sloane Crosley’s 2010 followup to her breakout success of I Was Told There’d Be Cake, another book of personal essays. Perhaps it’s the occasion of six years passing since I was wowed by Cake, but her second collection falls flat to me. Or maybe it’s with a tinge of joy that I categorize her writing in these essays as a bit pedestrian, especially after seeing her sparkle at a recent Booksmith reading of her new novel. I walked home from that event with a pit in my stomach filling with pricks of jealousy– how could she be so charming and interesting and honest about her struggle as a writer (“I’m a fraud”) and also a good writer? But I somewhat gleefully find that she perhaps is not as grand of a writer as I’d built up in my mind over the years, maybe my own tastes had expanded past oohing and ahhing over shiny tight witty prose. I’m reserving full blown jealousy for her novel, research for which had her on the subway on a Tuesday afternoon to go check out a jewelry collection at the Frick. More to come.