August 2009 Blog
This month Susan is completing Kindergarten Mafia for submission.
Pitch, Network, Learn
Notes from the RWA conference, July 15-19, 2009
Marriott Wardman Hotel, Washington DC
Cliché: The conference was a massive buffet.
Similes: I pitched like a madwoman, networked like a gawky teenager and learned like a hungry kid.
Final score: Editors asked for partials and, in one case, a full manuscript. I met some wonderful and talented people. I have a slew of notes (special thanks again, Donald Maass!)
Before I dish about some of that networking, I’d like to focus on pitching; specifically, what to expect just before you pitch your work to an editor or agent. There are brilliant books, websites, workshops and seminars about the who, what, when, where, why and how to pitch. I’m talking about what it looks and feels like in those fifteen minutes before you open your mouth and explain why your manuscript is the unsung gem of the Western World.
I love to pitch. Pitching is child’s play compared to writing. It’s pure pleasure to get a full ten minutes with an industry professional to talk about my work.
Come on along for my first pitch of the conference. The editor appointment is scheduled for eleven-thirty a.m. I arrive just before quarter past, butterflies in full flight.
I head to the check-in desk where volunteers confirm my appointment and direct me toward the waiting area. I take my seat with the other eleven-thirties. Before us is a scene that looks like a speed-dating session organized by obsessive-compulsives.
The eleven-tens are currently pitching the snot out of agents and editors. A woman with a microphone counts down their allotted ten minutes. Another volunteer beckons the eleven-twenties and organizes them into four rows.
Those of us in the waiting area observe the activity and return to our preparations. I nod at the writer beside me, take a deep breath and review the essentials. I have confidence in my story. My juicy 50-word spiel is handwritten on an index card for quick reference. My business cards are placed for easy access.
“Five minutes,” says the woman with the microphone.
In the waiting area, the tension mounts. Each of us uses this prelude in unique fashion. One writer stares into middle distance and quietly whispers her pitch. One refuses to sit with us; she stands nearby and occasionally walks out her nervousness. One woman tries to maintain a cool façade that appears to cover a burning desire to puke.
“One minute.”
The decibel level rises as the eleven-tens go into a frenzy of parting words. Precisely one minute later the eleven-twenties are led to the chairs vacated by the eleven-tens and the pitches begin anew.
The volunteer approaches the waiting area. “Eleven-thirty appointments please stand over here.”
She scoots us into lines according to the name of the editor or agent we’re about to meet. Woe betides the writer who waits for her own name. She is scorned.
“Five minutes.” Okay, I know the name of the editor, the publishing house, the reason I’ve chose that agent and that publishing house and –
A few of the eleven-twenties are already on their way out of the hall. Most are contained, inscrutable. One compresses her lips and fights back a wave of emotion. Exhilaration? I wonder. Despair?
“One minute.”
A few of the eleven-thirties crack jokes. The tension begins to release. This is it.
“Time.”
“Stay in order, please. Follow me.” The volunteer leads us to our appointed chairs.
I greet the editor and introduce myself. I barely notice the hard plastic folding chair warmed by the eleven-tens and eleven-twenties. They’ve had their turn. It’s show time.
Thanks to the magic of cancellations, I will do this another three times over the next eighteen hours. Each meeting goes relatively well, although one professional frowns throughout my pitch and interrupts me mid-way though my smash-bam ending. Since my opening pitch is a total of three sentences it doesn’t take much to divine a lack of connection there. Still, she asks for a partial manuscript.
I figure there are four levels of response for an unpublished writer. Below Zero is, “Go away” or perhaps a call for security to take you away. At Zero is, “It’s not for us.” Level One is, “Send me the first three chapters” or “Send me the first three chapters and a synopsis.” (One industry professional I spoke with during a casual luncheon asked me to send her the first five pages of my manuscript in progress). Level Two is, “Send me a synopsis and the full manuscript.” If you know of a Level Three for an untried writer, drop me a line.
* * * * * * * * * * *
Okay, so it bears repeating. On the Myers Briggs scale I’m just a titch into introvert territory. On my second night of the RWA conference I can’t find any of the people I know so I catch the subway to Nationals Stadium and take in a baseball game. I love American baseball. Don’t ask me who won but the Cubs were ahead when I left after the seventh inning stretch.
I return to the Marriott where hundreds of women are drinking, talking and networking. They are loud, they are exuberant. Every once in awhile another woo-woo erupts and glasses are raised. I am so out of my comfort zone.
Yes, gingerheart reader, I am comfortable going to a game alone in Washington DC, but this scene paralyzes me. I see another woman who scans the room for a familiar face.
I invite her to join me for a drink. Her name is Annette McCleave and she happens to be another Canadian. She’s got a great resume. Annette is no slouch. I aspire to be like Annette. And then, before my eyes, she turns into a little kid because the young woman sitting beside us is the writer whom Annette aspires to be.
If you don’t already know the name, Lydia Joyce is a writer of dark sexy paranormal. I quickly catch up on her career. My notes from the evening tell me that she was first published four years ago and now has six books in print. Her seventh is on the way (in fact, when she mentions her new baby I think she’s taking about her manuscript in progress).
She just happens to have her new manuscript with her. Annette holds her hands out for a look and Lydia flips to one of her favourite scenes. Annette’s reaction to the scene is immediate. Physical. She passes the binder to me. This isn’t the genre I read, but so what? I want to know why Annette recoiled when she read the scene.
I am sucked in by the writing, it’s so good.
Let’s review. Lydia has a baby and a six year old who is home-schooled. She is a prolific writer. In her pre-children days Lydia could churn out more than seventy pages a day. Now her husband gives her two uninterrupted hours of childcare each day so she can write twenty pages a day. Her dream is to get a nanny.
Yeah, I don’t have any excuses for not writing.
A woman who introduces herself as a seventy-five year old bookshop owner in DC overhears our conversation. “You’re Lydia? Lydia Joyce? I am a fan. I have your book, would you sign it please?” Annette swoons as she watches Lydia autograph her book. “Wouldn’t you love to have a fan like that?” she whispers to me. Sure, but my first dream is to be as disciplined, talented and prolific as Lydia Joyce.