I speak here not of Obama but of my favorite first novel of the year to date: Sharp Teeth by Toby Barlow. Sharp Teeth (the title is the only thing about the book I’m not 100% sure of, if for no other reason than I have trouble remembering it) is the story of werewolves in Los Angeles — great, you say, another one of those. But before you clutter your head with images of Michael Landon or Warren Zevon I should point out that this book features werewolves competing in bridge tournaments, and at least one who grapples with the lure of Kibbles & Bits. Call it the Call of the Domesticated.

And did I mention that it is written in blank verse? You know, like the Aenied. I’ve been avoiding the reviews, as I usually do when I’m enjoying something, but I gather some critics were put off by Barlow’s use of this rather antiquated form. Me, I think it gives the whole proceedings a kind of heroic (and occasionally mock-heroic) quality that the story told straight wouldn’t have. Some reviewers also seem to resent the fact that Barlow is the creative director of an advertising agency in Detroit (as opposed to a Trustafarian graduate of some prestigious writing program living in Brooklyn) and suspect everything right down to the packaging. (The hardcover is dust-jacket free, with blurbs from favorable British reviews printed inside.)

But how did the book come to be reviewed in the UK first? Because it was published there first, and I would love to see the rejection letters Barlow collected from US publishers while trying to get someone to have a good look at it here. (Harper Collins no doubt found it easier to print the book once it had enjoyed success overseas.) It’s hard out there for a pimp, let alone a lycanthrope: As my friend Charlie Haas said to me recently, the publishing business is run by reading groups. If your book isn’t the kind that will stand up to those sorts of questions that are posed in the backs of books meant to get a coffee klatsch started, then your effort is probably dead meat. The kind even werewolves won’t touch.

And book groups are mostly made up of women (news flash), and most women reading “werewolves in modern LA” are going to turn the page or put the book back on the table at Barnes & Noble in favor of some Elizabeth Gilbert knock-off. (Barlow’s book might better have been titled Eat, Prey, Run.) More’s the pity. Sharp Teeth features at least one great female character (yeah, she turns into a wolf too) but more importantly deals, on a pretty visceral level, with a lot of those man-woman questions of the shall-I-trust-him-or-kill-him-first variety familiar to anyone who has ever been in love.

But monster, even monster as metaphor is something I think most publishers don’t believe women would gravitate towards. (Which is why they’ve stayed away in droves from Beauty and the Beast.) I’m glad Harper Collins had the cojones to publish this funny, gripping and original book. Is it coincidence that the same house will be publishing Charlie’s first novel, that went through its own share or rejections and rewrites? Only a fool would write a novel in this day and age, I’ve heard it said, and, as I embark on revising my own, I confess to be one of those fools. At least I can sleep through a full moon.