The Dreaded Query Letter
And a New Title for My Memoir
Welcome to My 63rd Newsletter, My Friends!
My promise to you when you subscribed to my newsletter was to take you along on my journey from Cleveland to Cork and from riches to rags, as I construct my memoir, raw, unfiltered, and in real time, sharing stories, recipes, and techniques. Well, the time has come when my rags have worn thin, and I must turn this passion into a viable career.
When I returned to Ireland after spending Christmas and New Year’s with family in the States, I kept my food trailer, Tastebuds, closed for the remainder of January and took the opportunity to buckle down and start turning my Substack Newsletters into actual chapters.
Knowing I had only a few short weeks until I’d be back at work, I focused all my time and attention on writing. I didn’t sleep. I barely ate. Ari was delighted with the increase in takeout meals and screen time he was allowed! Every day was productive, and I shrieked with joy when, at the end of the month, I had 29 relatively solid chapters written!
My writing was better than I initially thought, and I was amazed by the volume. This boosted my confidence, and I began putting together a book proposal to send to publishers in the hope of securing a book advance. If successful, I could take time off from Tastebuds, preferably the entire winter, or at least weekends for starters, to finish a few missing chapters, polish what I already have, and organize the manuscript. Since it is my ultimate dream to travel the world reading from my book and then feeding the audience, I will likely have no trouble paying the publisher back through book sales. However, I learned that many publishers will accept proposals only from literary agents.
To acquire a literary agent, you must send them a query letter, which looks simple enough! But then I started a deep dive into what makes a query letter successful, and I began overthinking it. I used tools that I never felt I needed before, like Grammarly and AI. Suddenly, it looked like my fifth-grade teacher, Sr. Doloros, had taken a red marker to everything I’d ever written, shattering my newfound confidence.
My goal was to send the letter by my 55th birthday. After two months of tormenting myself, deleting draft after draft, I ended up just sending out what I had on the date of my self-imposed deadline. It was an interesting coincidence that my new title, Terrible Beauty, came from W.B. Yeats's poem "Easter 1916," and that my birthday was on Easter Sunday. I hoped that it might bring me luck.
I have not heard back from the literary agent I sent it to, and I am not surprised. I am not sure if this letter is good or bad; I only know that it does not sound like me. I did the same thing at my writers' group meeting Thursday night; I tried to be a poet because most of them are poets, forgetting that it was their genuine interest in my stories that earned me a seat at that table. Moving forward, I’ve got to just trust my own voice to get my stories published. If that doesn’t work, I’ll publish it myself! Which actually sounds more like me!
Well, I promised I’d share it with you, so here it is!
Thank You for Reading!
THE QUERY LETTER:
Dear XX XXXXXXXXXXX,
Because you champion colorful characters with unapologetically honest voices, I am seeking your representation for TERRIBLE BEAUTY, my memoir, complete at 70k words. The story begins with the loss of Tastebuds, my beloved restaurant that thrived for nearly two decades, until COVID-19, corporate greed, and a lack of government intervention forced its untimely closure in April 2020. While devastating, this allowed me to follow through with my dream of moving to Ireland, a plan that began three years earlier, prompted by an incident involving a live shooter that forced my three-year-old son’s daycare into lockdown, and left him with a profound fear of being shot and killed.
Moving to Ireland was only the first hurdle, and before our visas expired, I found myself sheepishly applying for International Protection. At that time, America’s violent gun epidemic had yet to haunt the global consciousness as it would in May 2022, when back-to-back massacres in Buffalo, New York, and Uvalde, Texas, forced the world to look on in horror.
Mine is a story of reverse migration, not for opportunity, but for safety and mental health. It is a meditation on what it means to be a “refugee” from a first-world crisis. Set against the contrasting backdrop of Cleveland, Ohio, and Cork, Ireland, my memoir explores the cultural rift between two worlds. I examine the fundamental shifts in family values, education, and healthcare, while diving deep into the soul of both nations through their food, arts, and culture.
Woven throughout are bittersweet remembrances of childhood and a nostalgic look at a vanished golden age of American dining. I offer an intimate, often critical perspective on how American politics and media outlets have divided families and how America’s influence continues to reshape Irish culture, raising urgent questions about what is lost as global dominance erodes local traditions and the well-being of the next generation.
This memoir will appeal to readers of Gabrielle Hamilton’s Blood, Bones and Butter, Anthony Bourdain’s Kitchen Confidential, John Woodrow Cox’s Children Under Fire, and anyone who has ever dreamt of leaving the United States in search of a better life, which a recent Gallup poll revealed is one in five US citizens.
Thank you for your time and for considering my request! (Two sample chapters will follow.)
Cheers!
Bridget McGinty
tastebudsrestaurant@gmail.com
https://share.google/J4KNtqWHRET2PGvU3
Sample Chapters:
Chapter One
A Look Was All It Took
It wasn’t political… at first. It wasn’t for the safety and well-being of my child either. No, it was much more personal than that, more subtle, too. It was a look, a nod, a finger lifted from the steering wheel of a passing car, all done with care, concern for my well-being, and a genuine smile that made me want to move to the country of my ancestry. Ireland is abundant with childlike curiosity and kindness, an entire people acting on impulse, instinct, and the fear of God. Beating hearts and bleeding hearts at home or in the pubs, their fires still burn, as they gather ‘round to hear a story or a song, or to sit in quiet contemplation.
We are so distant from our tribe and so far removed from the fire in America, and it is so loud, you cannot hear your own thoughts. For me, moving to Ireland was only a dream, an escape from the noise and the hustle and bustle and the material wants and needs that have us endlessly chasing our own tails. A dream, I could have easily forgotten, until the gunshots and the low-flying police helicopter, the SWAT team and the police dog, and the words from my three-year-old son that woke me from my complacent coma; “Mom! We can’t sit by a window, there’s a live shooter out there!”
I’ve been running my whole life, full speed, consciously away from or blindly toward. After being here in Ireland for five years, I look around, I look up and down, to the future and to my past, and I find that I have caught my breath, and I find that I have no more reasons to run.
Chapter 29.
With All Her Faults
Just days after mailing in our application for Permission to Remain in Ireland, after being denied asylum, Ari and I walked to our local movie theater to see Whitney Houston: I Wanna Dance With Somebody (Written by Anthony McCarten. Directed by Kasi Lemmons. Distributed by Sony Pictures, 2022). From the moment the actress, Naomi Ackie, appeared on screen, wearing that iconic white tracksuit from Whitney Houston’s legendary 1991 performance at Super Bowl XXV, singing The Star-Spangled Banner, I began to cry.
Hearing the National Anthem, seeing those red, white, and blue flags waving, the crowd cheering, and the F-16s flying overhead, flooded me with nostalgia for who we were back then, as Americans, as McGintys, as Christians, as decent Human Beings, and I just fucking lost it. My thoughts and memories conjured up a tidal wave of emotions that sent me tumbling and thrashing about for days.
I remember that moment in time so vividly; that period in history, when it really seemed like global peace was possible, when the United States was indeed united, and I believed that America’s newly launched attack, Desert Storm, was helping to liberate the world and bring its oppressors to justice. We had just witnessed the release of Nelson Mandela, the end of the Cold War, and the breakup of the Soviet Union. The Berlin Wall was reduced to rubble, and President Reagan’s daring directive was still echoing in our ears: “Mr. Gorbachev, tear down this wall!”
It felt as if the champagne was freely flowing and victory cigars were being passed out everywhere you went. Anyone could get a credit card, and everyone could get a mortgage, and restaurants, really good restaurants with exciting new menus, were popping up everywhere! That was a time in my life when my family was still loving and whole and strong in their faith, a time when kindness just came naturally to most people.
I was 19 years old then, and looking back, that may very well have been the greatest time to be alive in the history of the world, and I was well-positioned to make the most of it! Which, ironically, is probably exactly what my ancestors had hoped for when they left Ireland more than a hundred years ago!
But, before I could turn 20, which was only two months later, I would come to find that this was hardly an all-inclusive party. The beating of Rodney King and the subsequent LA Riots shattered all illusions that America’s promise of ‘life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness’ applied to all men and women. Here we are 35 years later, and what has changed?
Of course, one only wants to remember the good stuff, and before long, I was thinking of my fondest childhood memories, from Fourth of July fireworks and annual trips to National monuments or Amusement Parks. I reminisced about fishing and camping trips, snow skis and jet skis, and outdoor music festivals.
I began to wonder, ‘Am I depriving Ari of his birthright, denying him the quintessential All-American life, doing all of those things that I enjoyed doing as a child? Would he be better off playing football, basketball, and baseball in the sunshine rather than hurling or rugby in the rain? Will his childhood be complete without lemonade stands, Pepsi Halftime Shows, dollar dog nights, bobblehead giveaways, and a trip to Disney World? Is he really better off, if it means missing out on cousins’ birthdays and First Communions or family reunion barbecues with Papa Tom’s famous baked beans and Gramma Mary’s award-winning cupcakes?’ I sure the fuck hope so!
With all of her faults, I love her still, and after a week of brooding and pining, Darius Rucker’s song, Don’t Think I Don’t Think About It, popped into my head and became the perfect companion for all my thoughts and tears.
I left out in a cloud of taillights and dust
Swore I wasn’t coming back, said I’d had enough
Saw you in the rear view, standing, fading from my life
But I wasn’t turnin’ ‘round
No, not this time. But don’t think I don’t think about it
Don’t think I don’t have regrets
Don’t think it don’t get to me
Between the work and the hurt and the whiskey
Don’t think I don’t wonder ‘bout
Could’ve been, should’ve been all worked out
I know what I felt, and I know what I said
But don’t think I don’t think about it.
This process has been quite daunting; one does not surrender their US passport without a bit of anxiety, especially during a Global Pandemic. There have been a few dramatic moments when I have questioned my sanity for doing so. As hospitals struggled here during the many surges of COVID-19 cases, I thought about how I once lived within walking distance of the world-renowned Cleveland Clinic.
When Russian Nuclear Submarines and warships were 40 miles off the coast of Cork, meaning 44 miles from Ari and me, and Irish fishermen were basically telling them to ‘fek off’ out of their fishing grounds, I nearly bit off every one of my fingernails! And then, of course, when Russia invaded Ukraine and released a simulation video, demonstrating how easily they could wipe out Ireland and the UK, I couldn’t sleep for days.
And, I know! I know that the odds of Ari or me being gunned down in America are slim. I now have factual evidence, from the International Protection Appeals Tribunal, documents stating how unlikely they believe it is, but my gut tells me otherwise.
After moping around all day Saturday, wondering if I am cheating Ari out of all the fun and family back in the States, I woke Sunday, January 22nd, 2023, to the news of another mass shooting, this time in Monterey Park, California, and ten more reasons to trust my gut. No, it’s now eleven, as I have just received news that another victim has succumbed to their wounds. Wait…hold on. My friend Blanka just texted, and it’s rather late. This can’t be good. ‘School shooting in Iowa, two students dead.’
Blanka, like so many other friends I have made here in Midleton, pays more attention to the news coming out of America now, making sure I don’t miss anything that can support my claims and bolster my case for asylum. They were fascinated in the beginning, if not a bit skeptical, that I may be exaggerating the frequency with which mass shootings and school shootings occur. Now they’re as angry as I am. “I mean, why? Why is this happening, and how is the government not doing anything about it?” they ask again and again and again.
You know, I imagine it’s possible to get used to swimming in a vast pool with a shark if you think the odds of him biting you are slim to none, and there have been no sightings in your area. It’s another thing entirely to have gotten out of the water after feeling just the slightest brush of his pectoral fin against your skin. To have spent years safely walking the deck above, observing the carnage and the shark’s erratic behavior from a safe distance, only to be told you’ve gotta get back in that pool. There’s just no way anyone could do that…Even if they think about it from time to time.
And Finally…
According to Substack, I have over 300 subscribers and even more readers across 6 countries, with 21 paid subscribers. It would mean the world to me if more of you who are in a position to do so could support my work at $7 per month or $70 annually. You know, there will be book launch parties with lots of great Tastebuds dishes and a VIP table with your name on it! Also, if anyone knows a great literary agent who might be interested in my work, please let me know!
Thank You for Being Here With Me, My Friend!
Cheers!
Bridget