Wednesday, December 23, 2009

Query Letters

My brother is throwing me some Christmas crumbs and thought I should send some queries to agencies to get my aforementioned novel (unpublishable) Memorabilia some air time. This is the most polite letter I could write...Let's keep our fingers crossed....

Oggy Bleacher
Group Home #26
Laconia, NH 03246
Big Shot Agent
Madison Ave
New York, NY 10010
Mr. Big Shot,
Once upon a time the Boston Red Sox were a bunch of losers. For 68 years they knocked on destiny’s door and heard only the awful echo of someone who sounded like George Steinbrenner say, “Nobody’s home.” On October 25th, 1986 the Red Sox peeked through the key hole and could actually see inside. The dusty, cobweb-covered door even opened an inch. I know this because I was 15 years old, standing outside the door and I managed to squeeze my fingers through the crack even as Wade Boggs and Jim Rice were shaking their heads with a not-until-the-last-out kind of look. I ignored them. My face, Mr. Big Shot, was one of pure joy. I was there! We were going to win! This would be the answer to all my dreams! One more strike to Ray Knight. One more out…one more… and…wait…oh my god…what the fuck is happening? NO! NO! NO! The door slammed shut but I didn’t get my fingers out in time. I DIDN’T GET MY FINGERS OUT!
Fingerless, friendless, homeless, bitter, I managed to write a book called You Broke My Heart You Worthless Motherfucking Losers. No, I’m kidding. The book is called Memorabilia. But God must be a football fan because the year I finished the book, 2004, was, incredibly, the year the Red Sox not only opened the door, they kicked the fucker down and bulldozed the entire building along with Yankee Stadium and those supreme chokers the ’04 Yankees. They did it again in 2007. 1986 became a footnote, the baseball equivalent to a quarterback fumble that the quarterback himself recovers. BUT WHAT ABOUT MY FINGERS? I hadn’t even received rejection slips from my first round of queries and the Sox are already talking about repeat championships. Ah! It takes 86 years to win the big game and they have to do it the SAME YEAR I FINISH MY BOOK? ARE YOU KIDDING? So I’ve now been in a 6 year tailspin to rival the original funk of ’86-‘03. This can’t go on much longer. Needless to say, Memorabilia is still up for grabs.
Mr. Big Shot, I’m a reasonable man but my patience has worn thin. Memorabilia is finished. It’s done. Like Confederacy of Dunces, or Slaughterhouse Five it’s a completely insane tome of surreal literary architecture, assembled brick by brick, memory by memory over 11 years. I read it now and can honestly say it has no equal in sheer farcical bedlam. It’s a time warp. It’s a ten hour Roger Waters song performed by the Bee Gees. It’s a mosaic of tiny pictures of Papa Smurf that looks like Ronald Reagan’s asshole when you stand back about 10 yards. Does it need an editor? Hell, yes. Am I going to edit it? Hell, no. I’m busy writing screenplays that won’t get produced. I even wrote a biopic about Henry David Thoreau. It got optioned for a cup of coffee and when the cup went dry I naturally moved to Mexico. I’m sure it’s in production in Hungary right now and I’ll be credited as a hairdresser. Such is life. Another story I wrote was so good it took 5 years to get published. It’s in an anthology of bitter Los Angeles writers called Sleeping with Snakes, (not to be confused with that terrible movie with Julia Roberts called Sleeping with the Enemy. (I could totally see that dénouement coming.))
Is the world ready for Memorabilia? Well, one writer I respect just said I “make Robert Frost look bitten and forever shy.” That’s true. Robert Frost will become the ’86 Sox equivalent to my ’04 Sox lexicon ballet. One day, Frost fans will flock to my grave with their handwritten poems and Rick Springfield perms. Frost who? Kerouac who? Bleacher is the name that will bring their blood to boil.
Memorabilia is about music and baseball and fanaticism and self destructive behavior and Xanadu. You wanna read something that makes you laugh? Call me. I’ll send you the first 30 chapters…for free! After that we’ll have to talk business. Or you can go fuck yourself. I don't care either way, you New York snob. I only wrote this letter to get my brother to stop bothering me. Otherwise, I wouldn't cross the street to piss on you.
Oggy Bleacher
Laconia, NH
Creative Commons License
Man in the Van by Oggy Bleacher is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 3.0 Unported License.