Lana Del Rey
Next Management N.Y., LLC
15 Watts Street
New York, NY 10013
Dear Ms. Lana del Rey,
I am but an unnoticed writer. I have sought agents, upon agents, upon agents, upon agents, for publication of my books, but to no prevail. I have received rejection, upon rejection, upon rejection, upon rejection, 100+ times. But none of that means anything to me. It just made me change my approach. I instead became a self-published writer. Maybe I believe in myself and my work too much, but that will never stop. Because I know this is what I was born to do. This is what I will always do. Because I’m a dreamer. Some may have a few choice words for me, but I’m an artist. Who doesn’t?
The reason I’m writing: I adore your music. I’m in love with you. Your songs are unlike anything I’ve ever heard before, and you are unlike anyone I’ve ever seen. But I go to watch your videos and I feel like they don’t do you justice; and I leave them sorely disappointed. You are a magician, and your songs are magic. They may have a unique quality in some of the videos, some whimsicalities, but as a whole they are just random. When your songs are so much more than that. Your songs tell a story. One story in particular. I have begun the picture your lyrics paint, and if I may, I’d like to tell you about it:
Juniper Clarke was a product of a troubled childhood in the 60s: Her mom left at a young age, her father turned to alcohol because of it, which drove him to an early grave. She was sent to stay with her aunt and uncle, a verbally abusive and handsy pair. She would resort to drugs to escape home life, act out, make inappropriate trades with the boys, the girls at school whispered about her behind her back; but despite everything she was a talented musician. Very talented. At 17, she left her hometown and love of her life, Jack Campion, and rode a bus to Hollywood to make it as a famous singer. She started out with small gigs, found Lenny, a man who provided her with free rent if she provided him with what he needed: a beautiful face for his smut mag and a temp stripper. Eventually he gets her a gig at a bar, where she meets a man with a million dollars. He takes her home and marries her, using his connections to make her the face of Campbell's soup. America falls for her. She's their new national anthem. When he gets her her first show it's sold out, and you can't turn a corner anywhere and not see her bright young face plastered on every wall, making sure you purchase the right toothpaste, washing machine—because she'd be damned if she let her fellow housewives use anything but top notch appliances. But even America’s Sweetheart can’t avoid the tabloids, who have noticed her pattern: She fucks her way up to the top, and isn’t afraid to. But she doesn't care what people say about her. She's been dealing with that her whole life; she's no rookie. Then one day, she hears herself playing on the radio. She giggles in awe, thinking the moment is sweet like cinnamon. She tells her husband that it’s like a fucking dream she’s living in. About a year goes by, and no amount of laying her down in her linen and curls or diamonds and pearls can keep the most exotic flower and million dollar man together. They divorce in May. She turns to the drug scene, her songs she writes during those periods the only good coming of it, when she meets a quirky, tall, dark haired man named Jim Morrison. He was dating someone at the time, but no one could deny that the chemistry was there. They collaborated together on a few songs, turning their relationship into a whirlwind of rough romance. Some would say they were like fire and water; others thought they were like the wind and sea. Whatever they may be, she knew one thing: While he was still with his girlfriend, she was a sad girl. Eventually he leaves his significant other for Juniper; she was simply too blessed with beauty and rage--a combination he couldn't resist. They move to New York, living happily ever after. For a short while. She’s a Brooklyn baby now. But rocky terrain lay ahead. He calls her DN for deadly nightshade. He calls her poison, like she was poison ivy. He got abusive at times. But she loved him too much. Jim raised her up; he hurt her and it felt like true love. He hit her and it felt like a kiss. And when he was done, he would say she was pretty when she cried. But in the end, loving him was never enough, so they too would divorce a year later. She falls even deeper into the black abyss of the drug sea, and she turns to her former love, Jack, for sanctuary. She ends up on his doorstep in her old hometown of Torrance. He takes her in, even though he’s married with a baby on the way, and she realizes how much he looks like James Dean in his blue jeans and white shirt. She asks him if he remembers that day they met in December, and whether under the strong control of meth or not, she reminds him that she loves him more than those bitches before, and she will love him till the end of time; she would wait a million years. Months pass, and she’s able to gets back on her own two feet. She starts writing again, and before she knows it she’s got new singles and is welcomed back to the stage. She may have been in a summertime sadness, but that's over now. She has a new vinyl out, she's being asked on interviews, she performs alongside Hendrix, Joplin, and her ex-husband Jim Morrison at Woodstock. But being back in the music scene only sends her right back into using again, and Jack won’t have it. She sends him postcards as she always has the past ten years, and they remain unanswered. Intoxicated, she goes to his house. She bangs on the door, calls to him, collapses on the doorstep, dissolving in laughter. When Harvey, Jack’s older neighbor, hears the tantrum and tries to console her. She remains hysterical, and he invites her inside for a Cola. They have a brief affair, not being in her right mind, and the newspapers catch the whole thing, printing foul thing upon foul thing about her. Slipping even deeper into drugs and misery, she tries to find Jack, to do anything to talk to Jack, she needs Jack, and in the midst of her trip, she remembers why he won’t see her. She betrayed him. He helped her, and she went back to the very thing that messed her up. She gets a pad of paper. She sniffs, wiping a tear as it trails down her face. She can’t live with the betrayal. She will never do it again. Because she won’t be able to. They find her body next to the note addressed to Jack Campion. And another great joins the devastating 27 club.
I will love you till the end of time.
I would wait a million years.
Promise you’ll remember that you’re mine.
Love you more than those bitches before.
Say you’ll remember.
I will love you till the end of time.
But, as you have probably guessed, in order to write this story, I would need your permission. Since it is all about you. I would very much like your consent, as I think this tale needs to be told.
My humblest and warmest regards,
Well there it is, but it will never get to her because I don't know how to get it to her. But that's okay. This fucker is SATURATED with copyrighted material, so I would feel like it wasn't even my story anyway. Therefore, I'm just going to have to change everything.
Possibly coming out with "The Painter" today, my all time fave story (after "About a Girl" of course). Keep a look out.
Having two families, I get two of everything. Here me and the bf are at a pumpkin patch near his house. Being cool.
Already changed my mind. Not going to get permission. That's just way too fucking hard and I don't even want it. It would be ideal but whatever. My new idea will be more fun anyway: Changing every lyric.
Step one on a probably very short list of attempts to try to get permission for my book: Contact fan sites and see if they know anything. I googled "Lana del Rey contact" and there was one I had to pay for and others I just don't fucking trust due to my paranoia. So. Step one: Done.
Funny this should pop up on my newsfeed, especially in the midst of my writing Juniper . . . which is ALL of Lana del Rey's songs telling a single tale. It scared me for a minute, because I know nothing about these copyright things . . . I went back and changed AYW's cover because I was afraid of it violating any of these laws; who knows how many of my books have unintentional quotes, since so many things are copyrighted (like who the fuck can keep track of all of them? They're just words!). But then I wasn't scared anymore, because I know nothing about these copyright things. Like I'm writer. I write what I want. If I couldn't write what I wanted, I wouldn't be a writer. So fuck it. No one reads my shit anyway. When one day I get noticed for some far fetched reason I can't fathom, THEN we'll cross that line when we need to. Until then: I'm going to do whatever the fuck I want.
Got my playlist. Got my possible cover draft. Buckle up. This one's going to be a crazy ride. Off of a cliff of troubled childhoods, drugs, Campbell's soup, more drugs, a little bit of love, and death.
What a girls' nightstand might look like if your mom is an avid believer in Essential Oils, natural anxiety supplements, has really bad allergies, and perhaps a stomach infection that still flares up at times.
Just uploaded Witches in eBook, paperback, and hardcover, AND Ruby in eBook. How's that for a night of being productive?
Happy one year anniversary, you sexy website, you. Here's to another great year of wonderfulling the world, one magical book at a time ❤️
Just saw Goosebumps and I fucking loved it. And it's not just because I would marry Jack Black. It was just all around amazeballs, so go see it. It may be one I'll buy when it's $5. The rest remind me of the scenery in Witches. Except with all the modern houses.
People rated all of Rory and Lorelai's bfs and Dean came in 6th. AND with that reason that he cheated on his wife. Uhhhhhhhh I'm sorry, but I'm pretty sure the only reason he did that was because RORY. Enough said.
When I FINALLY got an email my package had been delivered, me and the kid sister ran to go get it and I told her once we got home to hide it in my room since it's a Christmas present for the parentals. Getting back from the doc and dinner, I go up to open it when I see this:
To fully appreciate it: She balanced my Snicket book face down on the bear, and there's a ruler, nose spray, Zyrtec, and eye drops balancing on top of that.
Post on Reddit this morning. Did I not fucking tell you or did I tell you?
I mean look at this shit! It's been in Denver since Sunday! Denver is an hour drive from here, and they stretched it into two extra days. They are magicians, guys. The worst kind of magicians. I mean all magicians are bad, but they are the worst of all.