It got worse—So. Much. Worse.—before it got better. The whole situation would have been easier if Avery’s dead mother hadn’t been “one of those.” She may have even left town unscathed if her father taught her how to cope instead of how to bury. It would have been good too, if Mike had broken things off sooner—before they forced their way into Avery’s home, before she dug her nails into her thigh at their droning meetings, before she watched her old life drown in his baptismal water. But nothing’s ever easy when religion and sex and snow and Ikea and baggage—So. Much. Baggage.—are involved.
Hi _________. My name is Id. I’m a professional writer and editor based in Toronto. I have written for _______, as well as several magazines including _______ and ____________. I’m seeking representation for my 86,000-word very funny, dark and obsessively-researched work of upmarket women’s fiction, _____________. My book follows a surreal month in the life of Avery Steel, an emotionally-repressed 24-year-old dealing—ungraciously—with the fallout of her boyfriend’s decision to become a Jehovah’s Witness.
My manuscript was awarded a ___________ from the ____________. Should you be interested in seeing the completed work, I would be happy to send it your way.
Thank you for your time and consideration.
Switching the "So. Much. Worse." for just a plain old "so much worse" is a possibility that I'm considering. But I'm feeling sort of dramatic at the moment. Plus, I think the unicycling unicorn (so clever!) kind of likes it.