I had to sit on this review for a few days. (This is a vast change from my "begin writing the review before even closing the book" method.) Because on the surface, nothing happens in this book. Darcy is a writing prodigy, having written a publishable novel during NaNoWriMo. (That's not explicitly stated, but she wrote the entire thing in November. So.) Suddenly she's whisked away to New York, to a swanky Chinatown apartment and a slew of new friends and a girlfriend when she didn't even know she liked girls. 
 It's so tropey. It's so very, very tropey. And in the beginning you sit there are wonder when it's going to start, and how Westerfeld could write something so droll. Yes, he does know better, and that's why he can get away with it. 
 Darcy's story is told in fragments between Lizzie's story, her blockbuster novel Afterworlds. (Yes, they have the same title.) And if you want to talk about tropey, take a look at Lizzie's story. Even her flaws are flawless; she immediately falls in love with a hot boy, her mother is kind and supportive, it's everything we roll our eyes over in typical YA novels. And, while we don't see the point her book goes on sale, we know it's going to sell. Because it's trashy, supernatural, YA romance. 
 A lot of Darcy's story is uninteresting to me, because I work in the industry. I know this stuff. But I would've been fascinated by this pre-career, learning about agents and editors and "what it takes" to get published. And even though Darcy's been dumped into the publishing world, she's incredibly naive about everything. I feel embarrassed for her, and I know she's going to look back on her first months in New York and groan over how dumb she was. 
 The book is a little satirical, though you have to look for it. If you don't pick up on the fact that Westerfeld making fun of his own industry, this is going to be the most boring, typical book in the world.