Gorgeous

Gorgeous

Review

"When I wasn't laughing out loud (which was often), I was wiping away a tiny tear."  - Meg Cabot

"Paul Rudnick is a champion of truth and love and great wicked humor, whom we ignore at our peril." - David Sedaris

"[G]leefully wacky and irreverent . . . readers are treated to Rudnick's considerable talents as a satirist as he uproariously eviscerates our celebrity-mad, class-conscious, appearance-obsessed, reality-TV-vapid culture with puckish delight . . . a wicked good time, with moments both outlandish and touching. And as a summer beach read? Well, it's perfect." - Libba Bray, New York Times Book Review

"Rudnick's first Y.A. novel is full of magic, snark, style, heart, and hilarity." - The Atlantic Wire

"Paul Rudnick's young adult debut, Gorgeous, is not a fairy tale. 'Because in real life, fairy tales always end badly.' What it is is a satire sharp as a stiletto heel that takes on celebrity culture, the fashion industry, consumerism, and princess stories. Oh, and it's wickedly hilarious." - Boston Globe

"With writing that's hilarious, profane, and profound (often within a single sentence), Rudnick casts a knowing eye on our obsession with fame, brand names, and royalty to create a feel-good story about getting what you want without letting beauty blind you to what's real." - Publishers Weekly,

 “Acute, wickedly funny observations on appearance and identity punctuate this sprawling, caustic fairy tale that cheerfully skewers the fashion and film worlds and their celebrity-culture spawn. . . . A Cinderella story with a difference, Becky's journey to reconcile her inner household drudge and outer princess starts where most fairy tales end.” - Kirkus Reviews

About the Author

Paul Rudnick is a frequent contributer to the NEW YORKER and ENTERTAINMENT WEEKLY, as well as an Obie Award-winning playwright, and the screenwriter for ADDAMS FAMILY VALUES and IN & OUT. This is his first young adult novel.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

“My mother loved Marilyn Monroe,” I told the prince.

“As did mine.”

“My mom read all of these trashy books about her.”

The prince paused and then admitted, “As did mine.”

“Really?” I said, tickled at the thought of my mom and Princess Alicia with the same taste in paperbacks.

“And that Warhol fellow also did a portrait of my mum,” the prince told me. “All in bright blue and orange, as if he’d used crayons. If Warhol was still around he’d be after you like mad. The way everyone is. People have been warning me, you know. They claim that you’re a gold-digging, predatory Hollywood siren. They say we’ll end up in the tabloids, shouting drunken filth at each other across a nightclub dance floor. They say that you’ll drag me into a fiendish morass of narcotics and cheap publicity and deviant sexual practices.”

“And what do you tell them?”

“I tell them, ‘God, I hope so.’”

Then he leaned down and kissed me.

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