Pitch me into the trash

I went to NYC earlier this month with my brother. The incentive for going was a writers' conference that was specifically geared toward thriller writers (commercial fiction books that are full of suspense, some blood, but not gratuitously so). Along with worships given by big-name authors such as R.L. Stine and Lisa Scottoline, there was the opportunity to pitch work to agents.

Let me start with the good parts.

New York is a vibrant city, almost a country in and of itself, with things going on around every corner. More on that later. It was highly enjoyable exploring the city with my brother. We spent more time together than we have in years, and more time just the two of us than I think we ever have. Warning: Cliche ahead: I have a newfound respect for him. It was really good for both of us to relearn that we can always count on each other and we've got each other's backs.

R.L. Stine is a very odd little man. He's this hunched, grizzled man of about 65, like an Italian Woody Allen. He riffed on regretting never learning how to type.

"I still type by hunting for each key. And I don't even use two fingers. I just use this one. I've typed all of my books with this one finger."

"Look how ugly it is."

It was wonderful being in his presence for an hour. I would stick his books in any young readers' hands.

I also had the good fortune of sitting in on a talk by Lisa Scottoline. She writes female John Grisham-type legal thrillers. It's not really fair to call them "female," even though her protagonists are women. They don't employ any gaggy "I am woman, hear me roar" tone. As a teacher, she was exceptional. She had a really thick packet of writing tips for each of us, and within that packet, was...

photocopies of rejection letters addressed to her.

Here's this NY Times #1 Bestselling author sharing the source of what is surely some of the worst feelings she's had in her life. (Any writer who says it's "just another rejection letter" is lying. Each one is like having your boyfriend dump you. So why keep at it? It's like going to a ton of proms, hoping the Prom King will ask you to dance and maybe, just maybe, date you until you are popular enough to stand on your own.)

She was an absolute highlight of my trip. Buoyed by the confidence she instilled in each of the attendees, I approached the pitchfest with the highest of hopes.

We lined up in the hallway of the ballroom, about 200 people churning and teeming with nerves. Today might be the day that changes my life.

Yeah, that's also an attitude that can kill your soul. If you look at any one thing and think, "This is it, I have to achieve this or else I will consider myself a complete waste of oxygen," then you remove excitement from the experience. If you succeed, you're not excited because you preset that expectation for yourself. If you do not succeed, you're upset not just that you didn't get what you were striving for, but you also let yourself down.

(I figure if I tell myself that enough times, I'll embody it. It has yet to happen. I'll keep you posted.)

So the doors open, and we all line up at different tables bearing an agent on display. The agent looks weary at the prospect of listening to three hours of constant pitching.

The bell dings, and we go. I pitch well to my first person, and get a business card offering to read my work. Excellent. On to the next table. Business card. Great. After five business cards, I start to lose my mojo.

I tend to tailor my speaking to the listener's interest. If I think your interest is sagging while I'm talking about the architecture of the Empire State Building, I'll segue into the pushy "elevator men" trying to sell maps at every turn, and how the elevators dumped you out in the gift shop. Lovely coincidence.

I found myself veering off script, tailoring my pitch every time I saw the agent's eye wander. And wander they did. Someone yawned in the middle of my pitch. Agents checked their watches. Sipped their water. Doodled. By the end, I wasn't getting cards, but rather, "Why did you set your book in London? Have you ever lived in London? Don't you think that's a little brazen, setting your book in a place you've never lived?"

And Robert Ludlum lived in eastern Asia before writing The Bourne Supremacy. Thomas Harris really ate people before writing "Silence of the Lambs."

Was it New York? Agents in Portland were far more attentive. Did agents feel more free to maintain their agressive persona being on their home turf?

All in all, it was great incentive to make sure my book is ready for anything before I send it off to the five who expressed interest.

Lord knows I'm not going back for a second try.