Dear Person in Publishing Books,
(I actually don’t know who’s going to read this so can I just call you Susan? Great!)
Dear Susan,
My name is Alcy and I don’t fuck around. I know I read a lot and I’m sure you do too so there’s no need to waste each other's time here.
I wrote a book (in English, my native language) that I know you’re going to love. But I don’t want you to read it. No one has time for that, ammirite? I know you have people knocking down your door trying to have you read stuff, right? I get it.
So that’s why I propose the opposite: I don’t want you to read my book. I want to read my book to you.
It’s as simple as that, no bullshit.
If you call me (I included my number below my signature) I will read you my entire opus, cover to cover.
Would you like that, Susan?
Boom.
A little about me. I’ve been described as intense, both on the page and off, but I have big, fat feelings too. I don’t have to tell you how much my heart gets a boner for current events. I’m from New York, from the Bronx actually, so that gives me an edge and an attitude you’ve never ever experienced before in your waking life.
I’m well endowed… in vocabulary. I have been writing even before I could pick up a pencil. I don’t have a favorite author, I only read to make me realize the limitations of my peers, and for inspiration, I sometimes write in the nude in front of a mirror.
Susan. How up to it are you? Me reading my book while you're in the room?
Haha. You're so hilarious and smart, Susan, it drives me fucking insane.
I can give you a brief synop of the book (and I’ll try not to blow your brains out with the premise alone). It’s a coming-of-age story set in the future. All of the characters are versions of me. You see? It’s an allegory. Or a diatribe?
Look, I’m not a scholar here and you’re probably smarter than you look. This may be a query letter, but we both know how this is going to go. I’m a conundrum wrapped in perfect prose and body hair. I wouldn’t say that I have a genre per se but more of an all-encompassing message of inclusion and personal dominance.
I’ve included down below what you should slap on the cover of this book when you eventually publish it. That’s right, I did my own cover. Don’t thank me for making your life easier, Soos.
I can call you Soos, right? I mean, I did type up this letter for you. Out of all the other places (and there are many better places I could have chosen to drop this literary gem) I chose you. And usually, I don’t even go for small publishers. Usually, they have to have those big client lists, maybe some in the Asian market– you know, something exotic.
But you’re fine. I don’t mind trying something new. How new you want to get?
I’m not going to waste anymore of your time. I shipped you all 3,245 and a half pages of the book, in single-spaced, laminated pages so you can stuff it in your big fat girly purse while you think it over. You have my number.
Balls in your court, Susan.
Call me.
This Friday.
I’ll read to you.
Or not. Whatever. Your loss.
P.S. You’ll notice the book is called “The Faux Flight of the Albatross: Second Movement/ Honeybees Fornicating Under the Sign of Libra.” Ha! It’s a private joke you don’t need to know about. Talk to you Friday.