fins

I contacted three more agents yesterday. One of them in Denver, which is less appealing than all the ones in New York, but would be handier. However, since so many of the publishing houses are in New York, and everything I read stresses how important it is for the agents to have a true relationship with the publishing companies (duh!), I’m not sure how good of choice choosing local would be. However, they don’t have gay lit as one of their topics. However, they do represent contemporary fiction and fantasy—which is what I write, only about fags. While I was at the coffee shop for a few hours last night, groveling to agents, there was a very cute three or four year old boy and his mother sitting beside me. In the small dose, the boy was adorable, but you could tell he’s the kind that after an hour or so together, you’d want to duct tape him to the wall. His mother was very over-indulgent and adoring. Everything he said was like a treasured gem to her. Which often leads to spoiled children; however, it’s exactly how I am with Gavin, so I couldn’t help but feel a kinship with her. For most of their time beside him, the boy played with his fish. His fish was the gutted trout I assume they were going to have for dinner. He unwrapped it from the butcher paper (is that what they wrap fish in? it wasn’t newsprint) and played with it forever. Talking to it. Making it ‘swim.’ Letting it rest on the table. Not sure what my deal was, as typically I would have a problem with a parent letting a child do something so socially unacceptable. Dead fish all over the table, next to people who are eating and drinking—come on! For some strange reason, I found myself enjoying the spectacle and preparing to defend her against some sensitive queen who wanted to pass on their child-rearing expertise (as I so often do). Despite the thinly-veiled looks and glares, no one admonished her or her son or the fish. Despite that I was charmed by their little world, I was also content to see them leave. (No one cleaned the table. I know I should have, but I got a sick joy out of knowing someone was going to be sitting in dead fish slim and never know it…) I vaguely remember being a nice, contentious, good person—Hmmm, maybe that was a dream…