How to Write The Perfect Covering Letter
I’m in my seat in Nero’s; the manager, Elena looks like a Degas ballerina. Not one of the paintings – one of the bronze sculptures. Her hair is tied up today, and she said her mother in law hates her.
I’m looking through the large windows to the library. I used to write there when I first started on the memoir. It’s cool and quiet, but I had to stop going because of the Magazine Man.
I would open my iPad, and he would read some property magazine; each turn of the page sounded like an angle grinder. And there were too many pretty girls.
That’s the good thing about Cafe Nero – there aren’t too many women.
Which is good.
A girl came over to my house last night. Let’s call her Morganna-Fortesque-Smythe the Third.
Things were going great; she’s a bit younger than me: pretty, limpid blue eyes, flowing black hair. Anyway, I opened the wine, and tried for the first kiss. We really got into it and the kissing was great; then I went for her ear:
“You licked my face. That’s just gross.”
“Sorry, I was going for your ear.”
“Ears – gross!”
“Sorry. Want some more wine?”
So we sat in awkward silence for ten minutes. She looked at her three-inch heels, and I looked at the wall.
“I think I should go.”
Then she left. I’ve licked ears before for Christ’s sake. Not going to call. Is ear licking perverted?
There’s a dog opposite me in Cafe Nero. I don’t mind dogs; if I’m trying to write, they’re ok. Oh shit, it’s yapping. Ok I’ll keep on writing and I’ll ignore the yaps.
Another week has gone, and nothing from the agent. She’s called Diana, and I wonder if she’s read the memoir yet. I wonder if she’ll get past the covering letter. I hate giving them the fucking synopsis. I hate writing them, and they spoil the story.
My covering letter:
I’m sure you are a ravishingly beautiful woman. In fact I know you are. My book is pure unalloyed genius. Simple. Do not miss this chance. Just give me a fucking contract.
Sorry for the swearing, but I just love my book. Let’s go out on a candle-lit dinner, and you can see that I’m pretty damn gorgeous. Diana, I’m sure you’re an intelligent woman, and will admire my great book.
Read my memoir when you’re happy – when you’re looking out at your pretty suburban front garden, with soft evening light across the houses opposite.
Diana, read it when you know the man you love, loves you too. Love my book, Diana, as you love him. Take me to Heaven, Diana. Find me a publisher; we will soar to the heights and sell a million copies.
Please let me know what you think of this covering letter.
Is it too subtle?