Dear (agent name):
Princess Ingrid Dana DeWitt has a problem. Many, actually. The family fortune is gone, and to refill the Royal Coffers her parents are marrying her off to an older distant cousin whose sexual preferences run to big boy diapers and nursing. So she does the honorable thing to help her once proud nation—itself on the verge of bankruptcy—regain some dignity.
She runs away from home.
Alone and out of cash, Dana meets a tall, pasty, and handsome American, desperate to get into her panties (when she’s wearing them). She lets him tag along on her mad dash for freedom, but Dana isn’t the only one hiding their true identity from their traveling companion. It would be a lot easier if the press, her Royal Security Team, and half the cops on the continent were the only ones trying to find her. And as Dana discovers the meaning of true love, her former stalker crashes the party and threatens to end her newfound bliss. Permanently.
In the tradition of ROMAN HOLIDAY, my 85,000 word Chick Lit manuscript ROYALLY SCREWED tells of how running away can sometimes lead you home, even if that home is a castle. A second novel, OLIVERS TRAVELS (72,500 words), tells the same story from the male protagonist’s point of view. I am an Associate Member of the SCBWI. I received First Place in the 1,000-Word Fiction Contest at the 2007 Santa Barbara Writer’s Conference, and Honorable Mention in 2008. Upon request I can send you the complete manuscript.
Thank you for taking the time to consider my work.
April 12, this year
I adjusted the tiara on my forehead.
“Is it supposed to hurt?” I asked.
“Yes, Princess Ingrid.” the seamstress said. “Now stop fidgeting.”
“Whatever.” I rolled my eyes. “Ouch!” The pin didn’t draw blood, not this time anyway. The fitting for my gown was going about as well as the rest of my life.
“There.” She sat back and admired her handiwork. In my annoyance with life, I hadn’t caught her name. That sort of thing was happening a lot as of late. “Go ahead, turn around.”
I did as I was told. Fifteen pounds of white gown fluttered around me. My mother had worn it to her wedding twenty-six years earlier. She’d had it bejeweled until it was worth more than a decent sized home. Back then, the thought of a Fordlandian princess wearing a hand-me-down bridal gown was out of the question. After the nuptials, she’d promptly tossed it into her closet and left it to rot. One of her servants rescued it and made sure it was properly hung (I doubt my mother even remembered how to hang something).
And now it was mine. They’d taken in the bust. A lot. Mother is...blessed. They also hemmed it up six inches from the bottom so I wouldn’t trip over it.
“You look beautiful!” the seamstress insisted.
“I look...nice,” I said. I didn’t want to crush her by telling her what I really thought. That I looked like a cake topper dipped in Wite-Out.