This guy I know -- who works for a pretentious literary press that can't be bothered with American writers, where people sit around in latte-induced self-hatred dreaming about future expatriatism -- wrote me to say that his press should be called "Dicks Thrive Press," because it publishes so many books by those born with dicks. Of course, when the guy I know suggested women writers they should publish, he mentioned women from, say, Uruguay. As an act of publishing espionage, I once published a piece of writing under a masculine nom de plume and within a few months was fantasizing about untimely deaths for my alter because he was getting so much praise. Straight women would constantly ask me if he was single. "He's so sensitive," they would say. "I wish I could meet a guy like that." I'm not sure how to become outsider enough to be an outsider artist, or underrepresented enough to be chic. Earlier this year, I got a rejection from a New York literary agent, who is a lesbian, that said, "Lesbian collections are next to impossible in the commercial publishing world and I have no contacts at some of the smaller, specialized presses. For this reason, I'm gonna have to decline this one" (what kind of literary agent uses the word "gonna?"). To her credit, she did read my short fiction manuscript, and wrote me "I really enjoyed this. You're a wonderful writer. But as you know, collections are really difficult unless they are linked or have some kind of a hook to sell with like Nathan Englander or Stephen Raleigh Byler. I do think you have a lot of talent and if you ever sit down and write the great American novel I do hope you'll let me see it." When I do sit down to write the great American novel, I will be in Cuba getting a phalloplasty.