By Michael E. Miller
By Allie Conti
By Keegan Hamilton and Francisco Alvarado
By Jake Rossen
By Allie Conti
By Kyle Swenson
By Chris Joseph
By Michael E. Miller
Not for the first time, nor probably the last, Elizabeth Wurtzel has found a topic to set her to whining.
This time it's not the canopied bed that a local hotel was nice enough to set her up with ("repulsive") or the Broward County scene ("shallow") or even men in general ("incapable of having relationships") that weighs on this sometime Fort Lauderdale resident who also happens to be one of the hottest wunderkind authors-of-the-moment in the New York publishing world.
No, this time it's the press, which to Wurtzel's mind has been lacking in adequate appreciation of her second book of trendy nonfiction, the just-released Bitch: In Praise of Difficult Women.
One reporter in particular comes in for Wurtzellian scorn: Newsweek arts writer Yahlin Chang. Last month Chang wrote a story in which she described the writing of Bitch as a yearlong descent by the lovelorn author into a cocaine-and-Ritalin-filled pit of emotional disintegration, a scenario played out in a series of small apartments and hotel rooms in Fort Lauderdale.
According to Chang's magazine piece, a low point came when Wurtzel was nabbed by the police while buying drugs and forced to spend the night in the Fort Lauderdale city jail. It is this particular aspect of the story that seems to bother Wurtzel the most. "I don't know, [Chang] made it seem as if she had a big scoop or something," she sniffs.
Scoop or not, the fabric of this tale unravels upon inspection.
The Broward County court system contains no record of anyone named Elizabeth Wurtzel ever having been arrested for, or charged with, a drug-related crime. Although Wurtzel seems to enjoy talking about the emotional trauma of a night in jail (she even mentions it in her book), she's shy about providing details. Doubleday publicist Allison Cherwin says only that "it was a bad time in her life. She was really messed up. The details are certainly foggy." Cherwin also says that Wurtzel's court records were sealed because it was a first offense.
That's unusual. The only way Wurtzel could have had her records sealed for a cocaine bust would have been to submit to a mandatory, yearlong program of supervision by the Broward County drug court involving random urine tests, drug counseling, and education classes. "It's an intense program," says Broward County assistant public defender Howard Finkelstein. "It's time-consuming. It's definitely not easy." Therefore it's difficult to understand how Wurtzel could have completed such a program while simultaneously living in the whirlwind of drug-induced craziness described in Chang's piece.
The turmoil supposedly began in the fall of 1996 when Wurtzel fled to Fort Lauderdale, where her mother keeps an apartment on Las Olas Boulevard, to escape a fail-ed relationship that had left her devastated. Over the course of the next year, she drifted from one small apartment to another while apparently ingesting massive amounts of cocaine and cutting herself off from former friends up north.
"I was running out every five minutes to do coke," she's quoted as saying in Chang's story. Somehow, in the midst of all the derangement, she produced a book, writing trenchantly about all sorts of hot-button women's issues: feminism, domestic abuse, Paula Jones, the O.J. Simpson case, Amy Fisher, et al. The writing, she says, was therapy, a sort of catalyst by which she healed herself.
It's a story that makes for great marketing: The wounded writer descends into hell and then claws her way back out using her art as a lifeline. In fact it's a story that Wurtzel -- backed by the powerful Doubleday publicity machine -- flogs relentlessly in an interview. (Her selling power isn't hurt by the fact that she possesses the wide eyes and smile of a Lolita-like seductress, a shoulder tattoo that bears the acronym of her motto ("Fuck The World"), and has no problem with posing topless on the cover of her book.)
But her wild-child depiction doesn't ring entirely true. In an interview with this writer, Wurtzel says she didn't know anyone in Fort Lauderdale when she moved here. So who was selling her all this coke? "I had somebody sending it to me," she says.
She did make one friend while she was living in Fort Lauderdale, a downstairs neighbor named Laura Breuer, whom she thanks in the epilogue. Breuer says she never saw drugs of any kind in Wurtzel's apartment. "I thought the Newsweek article seemed to blow things up," Breuer says. "They made it sound as if she had pills spread out from one end of her apartment to another and she was sitting there spaced out in the middle of it all." In fact, Breuer says, Wurtzel's apartment contained "iced tea, stray cats, and mounds of paper."
Not that Wurtzel didn't get into trouble while sojourning in Fort Lauderdale. A court-records search reveals that an Elizabeth Leigh Wurtzel -- one whose social security number, New York address, Fort Lauderdale address, and New York phone number match those of Wurtzel the writer -- was arrested, but her offense wasn't buying drugs to stave off life's demons. It was the far less melodramatic crime of shoplifting.