Pitch Black Saturday
I was still flying high from the positive response to my reading of Smoke Friday night when a pitch contest was announced. I wrote a very short pitch as instructed and tossed it in the box. By eight o'clock that evening we were all ready to hear the winning pitches and get advice on improving our own.
Katherine Sands, an agent who wrote Making the Perfect Pitch: How to Catch a Literary Agent's Eye,hosted the impromptu pitch-craft session. As each entrant read his or her pitch, Ms. Sands offered very helpful and specific technical advice.
When it was my turn I read then sat with pencil poised to take down everything she said so I could make my pitch A THING OF BEAUTY AND A JOY FOREVER AND EVER ALLELUIA. She said, "You use lyrical language but it's not doing for you what you think it's doing for you." I DID NOT KNOW what to DO with that. What could you do with that? So I waited until nearly everyone had left the room and she was very kind to allow me to show her what I'd been scribbling during the past hour-and-a-half.
"Is this a direction you think will be more effective? Or am I totally off the mark and should toss this approach and start all the way over?" I showed her the opening lines of the novel and asked if they might work as an opening to the pitch. So she took my reading out of my hand and read it. OMG! THE READING EVERY ONE LOVED! SHE WILL LOVE ME AND WANT TO SEE THE REST OF THE MS!
She frowned. "Is her mother crazy or psychic?"
Me: "It's a slow reveal that won't be resolved on the first page."
Her: "Hm. This looks Southern." *Like that's a bad thing.*
Me. "Yes. It's supposed to be. My mother was born and raised in Alabama and my fa..."
Her: *shakes head and sighs* "Well, you should start with this sentence HERE." She points.(That was actually very helpful advice.)
Me: Thanks very much.
SO. A hardcore NY agent with an excellent reputation hated my pitch, hated my novel, and seemed to dislike my hair and PROBABLY MY SHOES, TOO. I dragged my feet all the way to my room, flopped back on my bed and told my roommate, "If the clock radio is missing in the morning, it'll be with me in the bathtub." I hated everything. I hated me, you, and that guy over there.
Then came Holy Sunday.
Katherine Sands, an agent who wrote Making the Perfect Pitch: How to Catch a Literary Agent's Eye,hosted the impromptu pitch-craft session. As each entrant read his or her pitch, Ms. Sands offered very helpful and specific technical advice.
When it was my turn I read then sat with pencil poised to take down everything she said so I could make my pitch A THING OF BEAUTY AND A JOY FOREVER AND EVER ALLELUIA. She said, "You use lyrical language but it's not doing for you what you think it's doing for you." I DID NOT KNOW what to DO with that. What could you do with that? So I waited until nearly everyone had left the room and she was very kind to allow me to show her what I'd been scribbling during the past hour-and-a-half.
"Is this a direction you think will be more effective? Or am I totally off the mark and should toss this approach and start all the way over?" I showed her the opening lines of the novel and asked if they might work as an opening to the pitch. So she took my reading out of my hand and read it. OMG! THE READING EVERY ONE LOVED! SHE WILL LOVE ME AND WANT TO SEE THE REST OF THE MS!
She frowned. "Is her mother crazy or psychic?"
Me: "It's a slow reveal that won't be resolved on the first page."
Her: "Hm. This looks Southern." *Like that's a bad thing.*
Me. "Yes. It's supposed to be. My mother was born and raised in Alabama and my fa..."
Her: *shakes head and sighs* "Well, you should start with this sentence HERE." She points.(That was actually very helpful advice.)
Me: Thanks very much.
SO. A hardcore NY agent with an excellent reputation hated my pitch, hated my novel, and seemed to dislike my hair and PROBABLY MY SHOES, TOO. I dragged my feet all the way to my room, flopped back on my bed and told my roommate, "If the clock radio is missing in the morning, it'll be with me in the bathtub." I hated everything. I hated me, you, and that guy over there.
Then came Holy Sunday.