Printers Hate Menstrual Blood and There Will Be Literary Thrillers

I am sad. Which I will probably blog about when I'm not quite so sad.

In the mean time, Ben Tanzer's blog has made me angry. He reproduces a letter from Eric Spitznagel about the Monkeybicycle Dirty Comedy issue. Turns out its release has been delayed because all the printers they tried were offended by the content. Specifically offended by a cartoon that contained menstrual blood (because no one is offended by reading anymore because no one reads). Is this those wacky free-speech-hating foreigners upset at cartoon representations of Muhammad? No, it's god-fearing printers of America, practicing censorship. To quote Spitznagel: "I think we've learned something today, my friends. We've learned that the printing industry is afraid of menstruation." God bless America.

What has made me happy is reading Derek Nikitas's discussion of literary thrillers on Murderati, which tackles the literary vs. genre debate. What has also made me happy is David Jack Bell's hypothetical writers draft.

A Book Saturday and the Sad Literary South

So we got back from Borders. I know, support your local bookstore. My local bookstore closes at 9:00, sadly. I didn't buy anything because I'm busy reading Bowling Alone (for the teaching), Lucky Man, and American Tabloid. But Heather bought Derek Walcott's The Prodigal: A Poem (that's right--one poem 105 pages long) and Toby Barlow's Sharp Teeth (a werewolf mystery novel...written in blank verse). Poets are funny.

I did spend some quality time reading Oxford American. Unfortunately, I didn't see anything by two of my favorite writers, regular contributors Wendy Brenner (my professor from grad school) and Jack Pendarvis. But I read some of David Payne's essay on how the publishing industry hates Southerners Maud Newton's blog tipped me off to. Reminded me of Pinckney Benedict's succinct summing up of this point. Must we fight the Civil War in letters? Though I know a writer who attended a New York writers' residency and got the cold shoulder after they found out he lived in Atlanta (for my money as hellish an urbane place as you can get). But on the other hand, we are cornpone idjets down 'ere.