Dear Caitlin Moran,
Yesterday afternoon I was with my friend and looking through the list of people she follows on Twitter, and your name appeared. I had already heard about you, mostly because your books had been recommended to me. I wondered for a moment if I should follow you too - I’m shy about following celebrities but you’re the type of person someone like me, who likes to think herself a feminist, wouldn’t be ashamed to publically be interested in. My friend, in any case, spoke very highly of you. “And you know,” she told me, “she’s hosting the Q&A of The Empty Hearse BFI event today!”
It was only one more reason to envy you, a massively successful writer only a few years older than me, living a life of highbrow glamour at exclusive events, rubbing shoulders with interesting people. I was about to yield.
Alas, in our Internet age, what a difference a few hours makes.
In a rather spectacular manner, you managed to antagonise an entire fandom made up almost entirely of young, liberal-minded women like me, aka your core readership. How did you accomplish this? On paper, it doesn’t sound like much: you picked an erotic Sherlock fanfic off the Internet and made the stars of the show read an extract aloud for shits and giggles. But while it was most certainly shit, it wasn’t giggles for anyone, and least of all for us.