In this Very Special Edition of Danielle Steel’s running internal monologue, Steel’s Thanksgiving turns dark. “We all know what it’s about. You’re supposed to eat turkey and a lot of food, and be thankful for your blessings. Seems simple enough, right?” writes Steel. “Not always.”

“Within hours” of a routine visit to the dentist, Steel “discovered what appeared to be a betrayal by someone I have known for nearly 20 years,” an incident which registered “a severe jolt to what I think of the human race.” In desperation, Steel retired to her immaculate beach home, decorated with curios from the Second World War, to reflect on the tragedy of human existence.

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As a non-man who is nevertheless quite interested in the pursuit of manliness, I was interested to try the Genderanalyzer—which “uses Artificial Intelligence to determine if a homepage is written by a man or woman.” Last time I plugged the Sexist into the Genderanalyzer, it told me I wrote like a dude. I basked for several seconds in the news, believing that I had fooled this widget through my progressive, gender-bending style of blogging. Then I plugged Danielle Steele into the analyzer. Turns out she writes like a dude, too.

Now, it looks like this ye olde online gender identity crystal ball is beginning to get rather specific. The analyzer—which I’m not convinced isn’t entirely bogus—can now determine the dudeliness of your blog down to the percentage point. Just how manly am I?

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Updated when Danielle Steel does. Read past updates here.

In the latest update to her online diary, Danielle Steel delves into the seedy underbelly of the Parisian nightlife scene. “I went to a great dinner party the other night in Paris,” Steel writes, in a post entitled, simply, “Dinner Party.”

The party, which began promptly at 8 p.m. one cold, Parisian November evening, raged without regard for the social barriers of class or age. In an intoxicating frenzy of conversation and fine food, these baser human classifiers were brazenly and conspicuously shunned. Guests circulated, caring nothing for the subtle markers of social status that divide us all, even as the class war remained embroidered in the clothing on their very backs:

instead of one social group, or socio-economic group, there were fancy looking women there in cocktail dresses and pearls with men in suits and ties, and people in jeans and tee shirts. No one seemed to care what anyone was wearing (nor what age they were), they made no apology for showing up in jeans and sneakers, and the people in jeans were totally at ease talking to the people in suits and vice versa.

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After delving into the inner reaches of her tortured psyche in such pieces as “My First Blog Post” and “Halloween,” Danielle Steel moved to a far more disturbing subject last week: that of “Gratitude.” On the day after the most important election of our time, Steel awakened to reveal the primal machinations of the soul that drive Man’s very existence. “I want to put in a word here for something that I think is enormously important: gratitude,” she wrote. “It makes an incredible difference in one’s life — especially when you feel the least grateful!”

From there, the dark tale unraveled with violent urgency. Steel recounts a recent time when she “was feeling down” and purchased an “inspirational book.” But the book held only more details of the unspeakable tragedy that afflicts all Humankind. “Instead of telling me how to solve my own problems, it told me to put my own worries on the shelf, and help someone else,” she wrote. “Are you kidding? Did the author have any idea of the miseries I was dealing with?”

Can any man truly understand another?

Danielle Steel, noted author of such storied romance novels as Palomino, Lone Eagle, and Bungalow 2, has started a blog. So far, Steel has only posted two items, but already, the literature has afforded the reader a rare and troubling insight into the dark inner workings of Steel’s mind. “It’s going to be fun sharing my thoughts with you, outside the context of a book,” Steel wrote in her initial post, before launching into a 400-word dissection of her own deepest fears about the irreversible aging process (posted under “Uncategorized.”)

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