Former Gawker editor Emily Gould writes 6,000 somewhat self-indulgent words in the New York Times magazine, and gets a flaming even beyond the nightmares of Max Gogarty.
Journalist Philip Weiss does something not dissimilar in the same publication, and gets a rather more sympathetic reaction.
Rebecca Seal, in The Observer, spots the discrepancy and cries sexism.
I've only glanced at the two pieces, but my instinct is that the difference in responses is more due to the fact that Weiss's, a bit whiny as it may be, is actually about something of general interest (the male urge to infidelity), whereas Gould's is about, uh, Emily Gould. And blogging, sort of, but mainly about Emily Gould. However, I'm not going to devote any more time to the subject, because it's the weekend, and I've got a backlog of deadlines, and I still haven't finished The Unconsoled and that mysterious bruise on my right thigh still hasn't shifted. Which, were I a lifestyle journalist, is where I would have started. Before cutting off my typing fingers and sending them in a jiffy-bag to the editor of the New York Times magazine.