The year is 1943; the place, a New York City hotel apartment. Dorothy Parker—writer, poet, screenwriter, critic, wit—is not happy. Viking Press is about to publish a collection of Dorothy’s poems and short stories, and an editor is about to show up at her door. Even worse, a young woman editor. They could have at least sent a man, preferably a good-looking young one. But of course all the men worth their salt are off fighting the Germans or Japanese, including Dottie’s husband Alan Campbell. As Dorothy sorts through her works, she reminisces about her life: her famous friends (Lillian Hellman, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Alexander Woollcott and, especially, Ernest Hemingway), the Algonquin Round Table, the founding of The New Yorker, and her many loves and heartbreaks. From the roaring days of Prohibition New York through 1930s Hollywood and the early years of World War II, Dorothy Parker was there, wielding her acid pen and razor-sharp wit.