Last October, I attended my very first writers expo as an aspiring author. The very expensive ticket came with a free pitch session, where I could pitch my book to an actual agent. A literary agent! One who might believe in my project and help sell my book to a publisher. I could get published!
I dutifully researched the agents who were going to be there and I put in my request to talk to the agent I felt was a good fit for my work. In my critique group, I mentioned that I had signed up to do a pitch session. Jesse, a military veteran and thriller writer, exclaimed, “Oh, I did that last year. It was nerve-wracking! Make sure you have a plan. Know who your audience is. I just stumbled over my words for ten minutes.”
Jesse’s words rattled around in my head for a few days. I started researching what the fuck I needed to do to prepare for a pitch session and creating a document for my pitch session.
On the day of, I donned a burnt orange shirt with a yellow sweater, fall colors to match my hair. I was in the first pitch session of the morning, which was good so the agent I was meeting with could be fresh. I got to the expo early and meandered, stopping at a table where a book editor was peddling her services.
“Are you doing a pitch session?” she asked me.
“Oh, yeah. In about a half hour,” I told her, confidently.
“Okay. Pitch it to me!” she said.
Suddenly, I couldn’t remember the name of my book or what it was about. Where was I? Who was I? I had 80,000 words sitting in a Word document, but now, all language had abandoned me. I stood before her table opening and closing my mouth like a fish.
Finally, I got my wits about me and stuttered the book pitch that I’d come up with to her, sweat dripping down my brow.
She nodded encouragingly. “That was pretty good, but you should make sure to include a hook at the beginning. Get the agent interested right from the get go.”
I thanked her and went the restroom to wipe the sweat off my face. I thought I was prepared. I’d printed out the talking points that I wanted to say but saying it to an actual person had freaked me the fuck out. At least, I’d gotten my nerves out of the way with the vendor and not the agent.
That’s what I told myself.
When it was almost time for the pitch session, I went to the pitch corral with the other nervous authors who’d be talking to agents about their book. A friendly volunteer laid out the rules for the pitch sessions, things like “Don’t stop to talk to an agent that you aren’t assigned to” and “When we ring the gong, it’s time to go.” To me, it felt like I was heading into a very stressful, high stakes speed dating event. While we waited, the volunteer told bad dad jokes. I clutched my printed out pitch pages in my hands.
Finally, it was time. They herded us up a flight of stairs and I took slow, deliberate steps toward my agent, who was sitting at a small table looking at her phone.
I stuck out my hand and introduced myself.
I used the hook that I’d come up with after my visit with the terrifying encounter with the book editor and rattled off a few of the things I had prepared.
“This sounds like an interesting idea. Who’s your audience?” she asked.
I made a quick mental note to slap Jesse on the back for warning me to do some prep work because I had an answer for this. “Women 35-50 will relate to the midlife revival theme of the book. Fans of Sedaris and Lamott will like the writing! Actually, everyone in my critique group has a favorite chapter. There’s something for everyone because the experiences are so varied.”
“Do you talk about menopause or perimenopause at all? That’s a big trend right now,” she asked.
“Well, no. But I have an idea for a second book about my body,” and then, “I actually just started using testosterone cream.”
I hadn’t really meant to tell her that. For one, she hadn’t asked for my medical history. Second, my doctor’s had instructed me to rub it on my inner labia and, while talking about my inner labia with someone I’d met three minutes ago would be memorable, that wasn’t quite the impression I wanted to make. I begged internally, Don’t ask me to tell you more about that. Please don’t ask more about that. Thankfully, she moved on.
She told me that she wanted to see a book proposal from me. Fiction writers often just have to write query letters, very short letters that give an overview of their story. Non-fiction writers, including memoirists, need to create these gazillion page documents called book proposals. Proposals have a book synopsis, about the author, marketing plans, an overview of each chapter, comparative book titles, and sample chapters. The internet, of course, had given me conflicting information about whether I needed to do a book proposal or not, as memoir is a genre in-between fiction and non-fiction (it’s real life but it tells a story).
“I have a friend who helps writers put together book proposals. You should look her up,” the agent said, as the gong sounded. “When your proposal is done, send it over to me.” I scribbled the friends’ name down and shook the agent’s hand. They herded us back downstairs where the next group of hopefuls were waiting for their turn. I collapsed on a couch in the lobby of the convention center and took some deep breaths.
I’d done it.
Before this, the book had been some sort of nebulous thing in the future. Sure, I’d been doing my 40 things before I turned 40 and writing the book for a year and a half. I’d even joined a critique group to get some feedback from strangers on my writing. But this made it feel more real. If I’m going to get published, I had to figure out how to talk about my book, and myself.
Was my first stab at marketing myself kind of a mess? Yes. Did I almost mention my inner labia to a literary agent? Also, yes. But I did the damn thing. I put together a pitch that was coherent enough that she didn’t laugh in my face and she told me to send her the proposal when it was ready. I felt…buoyed.
After I got back down the stairs on my shaky legs, I texted Alex, “It went well! She wants me to write a book proposal, which is a lot of work, but at least I have next steps!”
And then I sent him this weird ass video to show how happy I was to be done with my very first pitch session.
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