Agents and Editors Conference: Saturday, 21 June

I woke up at 6 a.m. with my pitch circling endlessly in my head. If you know me at all, you are now reeling with shock. Since I retired from the Air Force and started my own business, my “work day” starts whenever the hell I feel like it. And that ain't 6 a.m.

Inspired? Nervous? Maybe both. I still don't know for sure. It's a mystery. But I was up.

I went swimming. My pitch didn't wash out. It would be there, I discovered, until my scheduled appointment with Abigail Koons at 2:20 pm. I was doomed to spew it at whoever might be within listening distance until then. Obsessive much? You betcha.

I pitched Deanna that morning. I'm not sure I made this clear before: Deanna is a) a very good writer herself; b) whip-smart; and c) subtle as blunt-trauma brain realignment with a ball peen hammer.

She said I need to stop rambling and focus.

It should have been upsetting, but it was true. Deanna has this really annoying habit of being right a lot. This should also be upsetting, but it's hard to stay mad at your sister. I chose not to go away mad. Instead, I went away determined.

“Mrs. Cameron,” I said, jumping up from my chair, endeavoring in vain to appear undesperate. I shook her hand, praying mine was not like a damp dish towel. “I had hoped to get an appointment to pitch you, but it didn't work out,” I said. “Can I find you later and tell you about my book?”

Smiling sweetly, she said, “Why don't you just pitch me now?”

You know that poem about the crocodile with the gently smiling jaws, right?

The air filled with the smell of frying synapses as my brain short-circuited. Why not now? Because I didn't think you were going to ask me to pitch you now! You mean, like, NOW now? Right this minute? I'm not ready right this minute. My jacket isn't even buttoned. You weren't supposed to see me with my jacket unbuttoned. Is there anything stuck between my teeth? What was I going to say again?

When it comes to fear, I am a method actor. I remember the last time I was confident and unafraid and I act like that. I marshaled my inner Brad Dourif, silenced that yammering fraidy cat and pitched the damned book.

She asked for the full manuscript. I sent it Tuesday. She wrote back to say it might be a few weeks before she'd get to it; she has another conference this weekend. I'll happily wait the few weeks. I'm busy with the first draft of a new project now anyway.

For all I know, my pitch sounded exactly like it did when Deanna heard it, but I was assisted in that dire hour by the great god Enthusiasm. That particular deity likes it when you just do stuff and worry about it later.

I do a lot of stuff. Often, I don't even worry about it later. Life is very short.

An aside here: I recount the glories of my wonderful weekend not to bask in hubris, but to show what can happen for you if you save your shekels and go next year. A lot of other writers were doing exactly what I was doing, and they were seeing interest as well. If they weren't, they found out why their pitches weren't working. Advice from an agent? You can take that to the bank. Those people read for a living.

After pitching Mrs. Cameron, I attended another of Chuck Sambuchino's events – a workshop on getting and working with an agent. None of the information was new to me, but the environment was great – lots of writers asking questions, getting Chuck off on tangents. He fielded a lot of long drives with good humor and common sense. He's okay, that guy. He knows volumes of good stuff.

We occasionally stopped talking long enough to eat – and even got a free lunch, with Sara Nelson as the keynote speaker. Yes, that Sara Nelson. The editor-in-chief of Publishers Weekly. I met her after lunch was over and asked her if she'd interview for a feature in Short Stuff, the newsletter I publish through write-your-short-story.com.

“What's your newsletter about?” she asked.

“Short stories,” I said. “I write them, publish them, love them. I hear they're going away.”

She nodded. “They are,” she said.

“Not if I can help it,” I said, trying my best Clint Eastwood. I think it came off more John C. Reilly. I did my best.

“Okay,” she said. “In case you don't find me later, here's my card. Email me when you get back home.”

It was all I could do not to drop to my knees and holler, “I'm not worthy! I'm not worthy!”

Book People. Caps intended. She was so nice, guys. Amazing. So approachable. Who'd have thunk it?

Ms. Koons asked for the first fifty pages. More importantly, I'd like to think we both had fun – we're Stephen King fans, James Cameron fans, simpatico in a lot of areas. That's important if you intend to develop a working relationship with someone.

We laughed at the same stuff. That's a big deal.

I spent the rest of the afternoon in the pitch lounge, where agents hang out after their formal pitch sessions are over. There, we heard more pitches. A veritable avalanche of them. I pitched to Lilly Ghahremani, who fell into the “not my genre” category, but offered me a couple of referrals to people who were. “Tell them I loved your pitch,” she said. How's that for a good hook?

Are you getting how generous these people are with their time and connections? Miracles, my writing friends. Agents are people, too. And a lot of them are building lists, which means they're interested in new writers.

Click here to find out what happened on Sunday!

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