It’s a small, sleazy world after all. Back when we were pitching publishers a dishy sex, dope and fucking in the DJ booth memoir by a long gone diva of local broadcasting with not much to show for it but a lot of pats on the head and butt, we had an occasion to meet this Pablo Fenjves, AKA the ghostwriter of OJ‘s doomed blood money sorta-confessional. The subject of our memoir knew somebody who knew somebody who knew Judith Regan and so she knew Pablo. Well, it turns out Pablo heard about the book and wanted to take a look at the proposal, just, you know, to offer some avuncular advice. So we send it to him and don’t hear back for a coupla weeks. Turns out Pablo ran the book right over to Judith Regan and took a meeting with some underlings who LOVED IT, THEY REALLY DID. But who would want to read a memoir about someone who isn’t already famous? they asked. Apparently Pablo didn’t have a compelling answer because he sent the proposal back and strongly urged us to write it in the style No Life Guard On Duty: The Accidental Life Of The World’s First Supermodel By Janice Dickinson, ahem, ghost written by good ol’ Pablo. Good grief. You know that old joke: people at Regan Books get into the porn biz when the urge to go respectable finally overwhelms them. I hear they sleep better at night.
NEW YORKER: Dead Blondes Tell No Tales