I sent off fifty pages of the novel, bundled with a SASE and query letter, to a literary agency. This, I suspect, is much the same as approaching a stranger and asking for bus fare. "Dude! I'll pay you back double tomorrow!" Ah, well. It seemed like a good, small agency with a nice client history. To my amazement, they said they were actually interested in representing "literary fiction" and "seeking new clients." This is like seeing a unicorn. I felt I had to act before it teleported away.
I spent two days on the query letter. As with writing the novel, simply finding the courage to face my appalling lack of perfection, to write something down, and to send it out seemed to be the primary issue. Since I'm procrastinating before writing my 1,000 words today, I might as well address a related literary incident (ok, loosely related—it has to do with courage, both in deed and (again loosely) in symbol). Apparently, the latest winner of the Newbery Medal for children's book of the year, The Higher Power of Lucky by children's librarian Susan Patron, contains the word "scrotum." In the book, the scrotum in question belongs to a dog.
Naturally, the American Tightass Club of Children's Librarians have organized to ban the book from school libraries. The ATCCL wants to be sure that no scrota pass through the hallowed doors of our nation's school libraries. Sorry, boys.
One of the most hilarious aspects of this story is a quote from Dana Nilsson, a leader of the anti-scrotum charge and apparent contender for president of the ATCCL. Nilsson, a teacher and librarian (god help us), said in this Sunday's New York Times, "I don't want to start an issue about censorship, but you won't find men's genitalia in quality literature." Nilsson, having not read the book she seeks to ban, seems unaware that the scrotum in question is canine, not human. She also hasn't read much Lawrence or Joyce, I suppose. (One of my favorite jokes in Ulysses, by the way, is about the "scrotumtightening sea.")
To be fair, Nilsson did modify her remark later, restricting the necessary absence of male genitalia to quality literature "for children." This seems even more troubling to me, though. Why define children's literature negatively? Why should children's literature consist of books with things left out? How odd to refuse to give the proper name for a part of the body to an audience of 10-12 year olds. That seems like a good way to produce gutless and unimaginative adults.
But then, the ATCCL needs future members, I suppose.
