Morning, QQQEers. Man, I'm tired. Rolling out of bed at 5 AM seems to do that to me. Anyway, today I have Jericha Senyak's query on the blog. You may not know her. I only met her a few weeks ago, but she has a really creative blog at The Museum of Joy. Go on, go follow her blog. I'll wait.
Here's her query:
Dear [Agent Name],
Somewhere in the heart of in a nameless city falling slowly into the sea, George Kepler, a shy bookbinder, is sitting in his attic with his books. He lives alone. He reads the books he binds. He doesn't have adventures. He dreams of geometry and harmonies and devils in the chimney. He drinks coffee. He sighs a lot. He wonders if there is anyone left who remembers to praise the works of God but him. He wonders if maybe love's a better option (at least it's companionable). He chronicles the marvelous workings of the cosmos meticulously each evening, and wonders why divinity seems so very far away.
But just when he finds himself distracted by the black eyes of his local barista, Lilya, a peach of a girl with sharp elbows and an obligatory dose of snide, two strangers come a-knocking who know a lot more about him than they should. Before he knows it, they've whirled George out of his sleepy life of prayer and sent him on a series of harebrained and beautiful adventures. As he pursues an unseen Klezmer orchestra through a driving snowstorm, falls off cliffs, uncovers the unlikely friendship of a Danish alchemist and a famous mystic rabbi , stumbles across a secret synagogue, and discovers a forgotten manuscript that might just be about the Golem, he's left with hardly any time to ask himself - are his new friends fun-loving fools, or are they after something? Are they angels sent from God or a pair of tricksy demons? Is he having the time of his life or beginning to lose his mind? Does Lilya think he's nuts or a just lovable schlemiel? And did he leave the front door hanging open?
A Fool For God is an old-fashioned mystical romp, a brooding Eastern European meditation on belief thrust into a San Franciscan carnival of merry drunken adjectives. It's one part G.K. Chesterton and one part Bernard Malamud, the lovechild of a fantastical Christian allegory and an old Jewish folktale birthed on a festive night in the back alleys of a city that just might be your own. Complete at 70,000 words, it's a work of literary fiction for the wonderers and wanderers in us all.
Thank you for your consideration.
Please save your feedback for tomorrow, and thank Jericha for sharing her query in the comments.