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I recently sent an email to the good folks over at AgentQueryasking them to update my listing on their site. They got most of the details correct — name, preferred method of contact, email address, special interests — but under genres represented they included “literary fiction.”
Of the many books I listed before the holidays, some I didn’t get to, some I finished, but only one did I start and put down less than halfway through, unmotivated to continue by what I felt were cold characters and a narrative style that seemed unduly remote. I didn’t love making that decision. I’ll stop reading a manuscript halfway through with nary a second thought if I know I don’t love it, but that’s also about making a decision to represent a project. But a finished book?
I find myself once more in the New York office, with a strangely adorable cat named Mr. Pongo peering at my fingers as I type. This is the consequence of a stopover at famous author MJ’s swank pied-a-terre.
Not sure exactly how I feel about this, so I’m opening it up to comments in an attempt to get a dialogue going, and maybe I’ll be able to sort out my own thoughts. Basically, I saw this piece on MediaBistro yesterday which reads as a pretty rough indictment of YA (the author Caitlin Flanagan proclaims “I hate Y.A. novels; they bore me.”), but at the same time, the full-length piece in the Atlantic from which the MediaBistro extract is pulled is a lush paean to Stephenie Meyer’s Twilight series.