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It's another Monday and my third submission of "Lizzie."
The Tale of Lizzie Brogan and The Moon Goddess, is an 85,000 word, humorous, paranormal romance about a late bloomer who finally grows up with a little help from a ghost.
Lizzie, a woman who lives for status and adores fashion, travel and the good life, learns the night of her unexpected arrival in Brooklyn, she can no longer travel on a whim or charge her expenses to the family business.
While tending her family's five little row houses in Brooklyn, Lizzie meets the ghost of her Aunt Annie May, a bawdy, talented Broadway performer, whose portal to this life is a tramp steamer and an old wooden trunk from the Belasco Theatre.
Aunt Annie tells Lizzie she is a direct descendent of the Moon Goddess and ironically, she must also relinquish all material possessions in order to remove a family curse and help clear the way for the true magic of love.
I read about you on Chuck Sambuchino's Blog; A Guide To Literary Agents, and I believe my work will be of interest to you. Pasted to the bottom of this e-mail are the first ten pages of the book. Thank you for your consideration and time.
Baptized Elizabeth Patricia Ann Brogan, my name is for both of my parents and my maternal Aunt Annie May. She was the wild one in the family and it is her blood, no doubt, that has caused all the ills of my life.
My Dad's reason for my behavior. "I'm telling you mother, it is the curse of Annie May come to visit upon us."
Of course, my Mother, Mary Elizabeth O'Connor Brogan, does not agree. "You'll not be calling me own baby sister a curse, Timothy Patrick Brogan."
It went deeper than Aunt Annie. It went back to the old days when they first came here and my mother had visions of pink and white ribbons and lace.
The Tale of Lizzie Brogan began when an anxious young couple, my parents, traveled three thousand miles from county Mayo, Ireland to settle in a strange land called Brooklyn. They worked hard and scraped all their pennies together to purchase a house. The same house and basement where I am currently trapped below ground. Two years later and a few more pennies down, they purchase another house, and so on until they own five.
The short version is: my father walks ten miles in the snow to find work. They wear nothing but tattered rags, eat dirt and are grateful to have it. They sacrifice so I can waste my time with loud music and boys. Today they are the poster kids for the successful immigrant; the boy with holes in his shoes becomes a millionaire.
Lizzie, mom and dad are rich. You on the other hand are poor.
That would be the heir apparent, Timothy Patrick Brogan II, born one year to the day of their marriage, currently a spry fifty-one.
Allow me to introduce the rest of the family.
Each of my other siblings come in short order in the next seven years. They are Michael Peter Brogan, eighteen months younger than Timothy, Moira Camille Brogan O'Malley, born two years later, and one year apart John Matthew and Eloise Mary Brogan Mulligan.
This is the Brogan family until my mother learns her premature menopause is myself in the pink. When I squirm into the world, the closest in age of my siblings, my sister Eloise, is fifteen and in high school.
Thus, I am the late onset, premenopausal accident of two middle-aged, Irish parents.
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