The Devil Wears Prada: "Not so much," as Andrea Sachs would say.

My number-one guilty pleasure is reading fashion magazines, preferably while curled up on the couch with a cup of coffee and a long, lazy Saturday afternoon stretched out before me. Glamour, Cosmo, Marie Claire, Allure, Harper's Bazaar and Vogue: I read them. I know them. I can recognize their respective layouts, font choices, and front-of-book departments. And I know the names and faces of their respective editors in chief. Which is why I borrowed Lauren Weisberger's The Devil Wears Prada from my local branch of LAPL after waiting an eternity for it to come out in paperback at Barnes and Noble. When it finally did, I decided I'd be a fool to actually purchase the thing when the library's givin' it up for free. It was the first wise decision I'd made in months.

I’d been wanting to get my imperfectly manicured hands on this gossipy little roman à clef about a girl who lands a job at "Runway" magazine to work as the assistant to editor in chief "Miranda Priestly." Let's review: Runway = Vogue; Miranda Priestly = Ed-in-chief Anna Wintour; and the protagonist, Andrea 'Andy' Sachs = Devil author and former Vogue assistant Lauren Weisberger. By the way, she's 26 years old, this girl. Or something like that. She's wee, is what I'm saying. Years shy of 30.

Moving on, then: Weisberger, who from this point forward shall be referred to as PLRG (Poor Little Rich Girl), would certainly NOT be a bestselling author had she chosen less-scandalous, less-juicy, less-Page Six–ish, less-autobiographical material for her debut novel. This book sells because people want to read about what a huge bitch Anna Wintour is. That's it. Ain't nobody buyin' it for its literary value. Anyone who reads Vogue, works for Vogue, works with Anna Wintour, has heard of Anna Wintour, admires Anna Wintour, or despises Anna Wintour was, I'm sure, literally sprinting to the bookstore to buy this freaking book when it cam out, if they hadn't already preordered it from Amazon. In a way, then, PLRG is an effing genius for taking her story to Doubleday, choosing a provocative title, and standing by looking cute as the marketing team worked its magic. In another way, though, she's a sellout. She jumped the shark before she even got in the water. She eschewed good writing, an imaginative story, and thoroughly developed characters for a slick, glossy, thinly shrouded exposé of a well-known, powerful fashion icon. And hey: It sold. It continues to sell. After all, it is deliciously entertaining to read about an intimidating, seemingly omnipotent celebrity getting called out on her outlandish, outrageous mistreatment of those around her.

But a whole novel in which the author reveals the nasty “truth” (or some semblance of it) about Anna Wintour does not sustain a reader’s interest for long. About halfway through The Devil Wears Prada, I found myself uttering, “I get it, I get it. She’s mean. She’s nasty. She never says ‘Thank you.’ She’s vague in her demands. She spends hundreds of thousands of dollars on designer clothing, extravagant meals, and travel. I get it. So what?” And it doesn’t help that the protagonist, who readers are sure to equate with the PLRG herself, is not particularly likeable. She whines and complains about how skinny and beautiful and tall her coworkers at Runway are, yet she’s a self-described five feet ten inches and 115 pounds. Um, hello? That’s tall and skinny, Honey. And she’s outfitted in designer duds by sympathetic fashion editors who wince at her sensible shoes and conservative suit jacket. Furthermore, she charges nearly every one of her meals, cocktails, and lattés to Runway’s expense account. Oh—and a Town Car takes her anywhere she needs to go on the island of Manhattan, whether she’s on the job or off. Poor her.

Andrea (that is, Weisberger herself, the PLRG) all but comes out and says she’s slumming it by stooping so low as to work at Runway, a mere fashion magazine (in the hope of moving straight to the staff of The New Yorker in a year; more on that later), yet she takes full advantage of the fashionista trappings available to her. At one point she even makes a comment about how working for a fashion rag is at least better than working for some totally lame trade magazine—and then she mentions Popular Mechanics as an example, which is neither totally lame nor a trade magazine. Having worked in trade publishing myself, I want to laugh at PLRG for being so condescending and stupid. It’s difficult to empathize with or feel sympathetic toward characters who are condescending and stupid.

Another unpalatable aspect of the Andea character is that Andrea always lets us know when she’s performed some act of charity. She buys Starbucks coffees for the homeless. She buys a sandwich for her driver. She mails a cast-off designer dress and shoes to a teenage girl who had written to Miranda requesting a prom dress months earlier. Give me a break, please. It’s not Andrea who’s purchasing the coffee and the sandwich and the dress—it’s Runway. Andrea’s expensing all of these items, of course. And she even admits to buying the coffees because of the pleasant “fuck you, Miranda” feeling it gives her. How's that for virtue?

Time to address Andrea’s/PLRG’s desire to work for The New Yorker. First of all, what editor or writer doesn’t dream of working for The New Yorker? Join the club, Sister. We’re a million strong—and growing. In this novel, Andrea seems to think she’s the only one in publishing with such a lofty goal. I don’t get it. Could she really be that naïve?

Secondly, she doesn’t seem to realize that it’s nearly impossible to get a job there. I’m amazed that this girl thinks she’s entitled to a job at The New Yorker one year out of college. She earnestly seems to believe that working twelve months as Anna Wintour’s personal assistant is enough to qualify her for the coveted position of The New Yorker staffer. Furthermore, she talks of “writing for” the magazine. Ha! Dream on, sweetie. Think “editorial assistant,” if you’re really, really lucky. Or maybe “receptionist,” if you’re only a little bit lucky.

I fear I’m coming off as Bitter, party of one. And that may be true. I read this novel from a niche perspective: A writer and editor who dreams of working for Condé-Nast but knows it will probably never happen. I’ve edited a trade magazine; I’m currently editing corporate publications. It’s not bad, but it’s certainly not The New Yorker, or Vogue, or even Popular Mechanics. So I’m turned right off by Andrea’s/PLRG’s sense of entitlement, her naïvete, and her hypocrisy (fashion bores her, yet she’ll happily sell the $38,000 worth of designer clothing she’s been granted by Runway in order to pursue a writing career after being fired from the magazine).

I was willing to give this novel a chance, I really was. Unfortunately, like a delicate, gem-encrusted stiletto sandal, The Devil Wears Prada turned out to be all sparkle, no substance.