Dear [CREATIVE DIRECTOR'S NAME],
The other night, just as I was getting into a hot bath with hairdryer in hand, I saw a being floating above the sink. It whispered, “Brett, talk to [CREATIVE DIRECTOR'S NAME].”
Perplexed, I blinked. “What? Are you–are you an angel?”
“No. I’m [STRATEGIST'S NAME], former Director of Strategic Planning at Wieden + Kennedy New York. Your boss at that little agency in Boulder sent me. Talk to [CREATIVE DIRECTOR'S NAME].”
“He won’t talk to me, man.” I said, shaking my head as I placed the hairdryer back on the shelf. The bath was too hot, anyways. Even unemployment-induced suicide should be comfortable up to a certain point. “And that guy you knew was my boss. I just got laid off.”
“You, and a quarter of the agency. That’s business, wasn’t personal. Welcome to advertising. Besides, you don’t belong in Boulder.” Then he leaned forward and whispered, reminding me of Doc from Back to the Future, “New York needs you. Now.”
This was too much. “So I just talk to him?”
“Email him,” the blonde specter nodded, “[CREATIVE DIRECTOR'S NAME] at Gmail dot com.”
“No way dude, you don’t just cold-email an CD. You have any idea how busy they are?”
“Uh, busy? I work at Apple,” he said it with an inimitable emphasis on the plosive puh sound so it sounded interesting, and smarter than the fruit. “Just use a good headline.”
“Okay, so I just email him? Should I send my book?”
“Of course you should send your book.”
Just then, my wife knocked on the door. “Honey? Everything okay? I need you to change a diaper.”
I blinked. [STRATEGIST'S NAME] was gone as swiftly as he had appeared.
“Okay, I’ll be right out.”
And so I'm writing you. Here's my book. Let's chat.
Names have been omitted to protect the privacy of certain individuals. They know who they are, and they know who I am. (Actually, they don't, and that's the whole point (Fuck)).