I've been thinking lately about ways of taking my career to the "next level," you know, the level where I don't have to write my own books anymore. According to my calculations, there are seven distinct levels of literary fame, and I want to move up on the ladder from merely published to the kind of famous where you can churn out a thousand crap sequels to your books, all of which are written by other people, whom you pay slave wages so you can afford your mansion in the Hamptons. I'm talking "An Abundance of Suzannes: A John Green Novel Written by J. K. Rowling." (That's right, J.K. When I'm famous enough to hire ghostwriters, I'll hire you.)

And I've been thinking recently about how to make it happen. And then I realized: I need a mortal literary enemy. Lillian Hellman had her Mary McCarthy. Gore Vidal had his Norman Mailer. Jen Lancaster apparently has her Stephanie Klein.

Incidentally, Ms. Klein isn't famous and oughtn't be, and we shouldn't even discuss her. We should treat her the way George Bush treats global warming: Maybe if we just pretend she doesn't exist, she won't.

But Stephanie Klein won't work as a mortal enemy, because A. she's taken, and B. you need someone who is in your sphere. Sarah Dessen, for instance, would be totally perfect, but as it happens I really like Sarah Dessen and think she is a lovely person and writer. Cecil Castellucci and David Levithan would be good, too, except I like them also.

So, who's it going to be, dear blog readers? Who should be my mortal enemy? Once we decide, I will send The Enemy an email in which I assault their writing and their personhood, and then hopefully I'll be chilling on Easy Street in short order.

p.s. Lindsay Robertson's Flowers for Algernon cartoon idea is very funny.