Anyway, always keep a copy of your story, and don't forget to enclose a stamped, addressed envelope with your manuscript which must be typed and double-spaced. But, most important of all, research your market.
Then it was early October, the Fall of Love. All the hippies gave Haight Street a funeral and Ginny got her ass thrown in jail. The guards squirted mace in her face.
The skin peeled away from around her eyes. She looked like a raccoon. It all started out innocently enough. Ginny and Kirk were drinking champagne. It was on the verge of the Christmas craziness again.
I was a little fed up. Officer Garrens was the cop who arrested her. I'll start from the beginning. San Francisco's like that. The weather's crappy all summer, but it gets nice again in the fall. Ginny and I had gone our separate ways that morning.
We frequently went our separate ways by then. Our promiscuity had taken its toll. It had always been okay for her to fuck other people. It hurt her feelings. We broke bonds we hadn't broken before. I was out wandering among the waifs fresh in from Kansas City and Des Moines. Simon and Garfunkel, 59th Street Bridge They were mostly making their way in the general direction of a free rock concert in Golden Gate Park.
It was going to be far out. It was going to be groovy.
I went past the little knoll we used to call Hippie Hill. Black guys in sunglasses smoked Kools. They beat conga drums with cigarettes sticking to their lips. A Golden Retriever had on a red bandanna.
A little hippie chick in granny glasses threw a stick for the Golden Retriever to chase through the purple haze of dope and patchouli oil that was rising up like the Jimi Hendrix song playing on the little hippie chick's little hippie radio.
In the flat meadow in front of the knoll, college kids in Bermuda shorts threw Frisbees with one hand and drank beer with the other.
A German Shepard leaped at a bright disk whistling above him. A little girl in red pigtails was backed up against the steel steps of the big slide by a frisky black Cocker Spaniel who was trying to lick her Mary Jane's.
His ears dragged in the dirt. She reached toward him, cautiously, courageously, almost touching his wet nose.
The dog let out a couple of elongated yips and tore off sideways, low to the ground. The little girl was disappointed I wanted a kid, a little girl of my own. I wanted to hang out with her, to keep an eye on her, to see the things she saw. Beyond the park, streaks of bright-colored cars flashed through the thick branches of cedar trees and scraggly pines bordering Lincoln Way.
I followed the blacktop path around Hippie Hill and over toward the tennis courts. My running shoes were yellow and black, the color of bumblebees.If other agents or publishers have read the material or will be reading the material at the same time let them know in your covering letter.
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