June is over, but I just got the June Doubleday Book Club catalog (thank you, sincerely, Christine).
I am here now to confess that I am Female Fiction writer. I didn’t know that’s what I was when I woke up this morning. But that’s what I am right now. Doubleday says so.
I paged through the catalog. “Blockbuster.” Gee, I was hoping I was one of those. Nope. “New Releases.” Well, I KNOW I’m one of those. But no. “Causing a Buzz.” I’d like to cause a buzz. No again. “Hot Reads.” I gotta be there. Nuh uh.
I sped through “Thrills and Chills,” “Celebrity Chefs,” and “Cooking.” “Great Reads.” I GOTTA be there. No siree.
The categories went on. “Christian,” “Politics,” “Health and Nutrition,” “Reference,” and “Real Lives.” I am homeless. I am a literary orphan. Someone has left me out in the rain on the doorstep of a home for wayward mothers and no one is responding to my wailing.
Finally, “Female Fiction.” That’s me. Pardon me, but this is not a nice thing to do to a guy who has already gone through life with a pansexual first name. I write “Female Fiction?” FEMALES write female fiction. Is this the kind of treatment that drove Hemingway to fight bulls, drive ambulances during wartime, and go deep sea fishing?
Female fiction my ESPN, Doubleday…