Dear Literary Agent
Would you like the incredible, unbelievable, or science fiction/fact version of my highly marketable story? Let's start with the non-functional "211" Social Service "Helpline" in California that brought out the worst of .mil spook thugs as the pay phone went BEEP, BEEP, BEEP. It finally worked, but only after the irate, about to be homeless (formerly) Licensed Clinical Social Worker (D-MO), (D-IL) who had done it all in the mental health systems of two states, dared to ask for the 211 Supervisor.
We agreed, given ass-biting, definitely not Baywatch set cold, that I could go sit in the Emergency Room of the local hospital. No, as it turned out, I could not, but 'po me was given blankets and sent out to the bus stop bench, by who? The African-American security guard, who like a valet, brought me a hot cup of coffee in the morning, and remarked that a modern day Nurse Ratched had complained of my first night homeless homeless presence.
The bus stop, the coffee, and his suggestion that I go to a fast food restaurant where "some of the guys hang-out" are all inside jokes not germane to the frightening economics and explosion of homelessness in the USA. I've been one of them for 16 months, and we should not discuss whether I am related to that other Hughes, who looked just like me climbing out of his Boeing race plane long ago. Sir, the whole state thinks I am, and big, long limousines both black & white in color seem to drive by my homeless shopping cart often, but as someone who is "in the know" said recently about the local Senior Center, "Nothing much changes around here."
I am WILLIAM CHARLES HUGHES, there really was a WILLIAM IV, the Prince of Wales is named "Charles," my sister is named "Mary Elizabeth," and the Grande-sized coffee at Starbucks is $1.85 in U.S. currency, if you get what I mean. I'm all about political and social change, I have two unpublished, but shall we say very leafed-through book manuscripts, seven complete screenplays, also rather dog-eared, but not optioned or sold, and if I may sound a little smug, the publisher rep's "This guy can write!" is now 25 years old, so pardon me if I say I need a g**damn advance to write about the egregious denial and inhumanity that fellow-travels with America's homeless.
Moreover, I am not anxious to, regardless of wealth or lost title, rejoin a society swirling around the toilet bowl rim, as is ours. In my old neighborhood, they would say, "Bill, now tell us what you really think" as sarcasm, so if you expect left-leaning or Tea Party blather, you are not going to get it. Just this evening, someone well-dressed inquired, "Do you sleep in the bushes?" Yes, I do, and it brings to mind one of my favorite internal expressions: "The truth--you all hate it!"
I think you [and all literary & Hollywood agents], are missing out on a lot of M-O-N-E-Y if you fail to write back and at least consider representing my work.