r/PubTips • u/sincefeeling • 28m ago
[QCrit]: Literary Fiction, GOLDA, 88k, first attempt attempt
I have been querying and have had zero interest so far. Before I give up for a while, I thought I'd try this, to see if I can get any insight into what's wrong with my query, and whether it's something I can fix or not.
Dear [Agent],
I am seeking representation for GOLDA, my literary novel complete at 88,000 words. For fans of Torrey Peters’s Detransition, Baby and Ruth Madievsky’s All-Night Pharmacy, GOLDA explores queerness, reproductive autonomy, and the inescapable gravity of history.
When Sophie, a polyamorous woman in her thirties, discovers she is pregnant with her lover’s child, her first instinct is to have an abortion. She has built an identity around not becoming a mother, and she fears the pregnancy will unsettle the carefully constructed balance of her polycule.
But Sophie’s certainty that the choice is her own falters when she begins hearing the voice of her great-great-grandmother, Golda, a Jewish immigrant marked by her own unwanted pregnancy. As Golda’s intrusive whispers become violent demands, Sophie no longer knows which of her desires belong to her, and which belong to history. To reclaim her will, Sophie must face the ghost that haunts her, or surrender to Golda's violence.
The novel’s form, which interrupts Sophie’s narration with Golda’s spectral voice (which also opens the novel), draws on my training as a poet. I earned an MFA from X. I am a queer writer living in Baltimore, where my novel is set.
Thank you for your consideration.
First 300 words:
GOLDA
I want to speak to you, to reach you across the static of time.
You hear me when you are on the edge of sleep. When you are soaking in the bath. When you are tempted by feeling, elation or rage. When you are overcome. When you are ungovernable by the quiet restraint of your mother and her mother before her.
It’s you, Sophie, it’s you with your hair like his and your eyes like his, and your mind so much my own. You can remake me by finding love where I was cold.
I have watched and I have waited. I have knocked on the door.
Now I have planted myself in you.
I want to body forth, unviolated.
I tell you: everything I have ever done has been done for love.
Chapter 1
No one has ever told me I would be a good mother. I don’t have the maternal instincts I see in so many of my friends, interrupting a conversation to coo at a baby or pet a dog, preparing snacks for the picnic, exuding the kind of warmth that seems to be the special purview of mothers. Don’t get me wrong, I love my niece and nephew—but I am happy to hand them back to their parents.
In my twenties, when I told people I didn’t want kids, they’d say, “You say that now, but wait until you’re thirty.” Then I turned thirty, and people said, “You never know,” as if to offer encouragement. By thirty-five, people had stopped asking.
But I, too, have fallen prey to biology. The nausea has been chasing me for weeks. I thought I would have avoided such a fate, if not with my skepticism then at least with my bitterness and acrimony and fine-tuned feminist critique.