I didn't go into the Writer's Conference with high hopes of instant contracts and fame. OK, maybe in the deepest corner of my brain I remembered driving by Danielle Steele's house in San Francisco and thinking, shit, if she can get published, I sure can. Now, I'll never be a fan of Ms. Steele's, but after enduring a day of pitching my book, I honestly don't think I can ever look with contempt at any published writer. I don't care what they write, just the act of getting it out there is feeling so herculean right now that I'm finding myself coming to the defense of writers I hate. At least they had the balls to put it out there, and that's a lot.
So, the day began with an amazing poet who gave a slide show of his life as a poet. He was inspiring, and I think we were all left with a bit of a "let's run out there and write great verse" kind of feeling after seeing him. That was the last time I felt that glow all day.
At lunch, I was scheduled to pitch my book to an agent. When I looked up her info on line before the conference, I just knew it was going to be a disaster. She specializes in romance for one thing. She also just so happens to live in the affluent town that in some ways represents the "bad guy" of my story.
The fist line of my query is, "Someone must have liked seventh grade, but in my time on the planet, I have yet to meet that person." Well, that person was sitting right in front of me. Late forties or maybe just a tad older, perma tanned in that "just got back from the Bahamas" kind of way. Perfect hair, killer diamond ring...I know, that could describe a lot of people, but think of that girl in high school who lived for the Junior Social and worked to ensure that the balloons matched the streamers exactly on the prom committee. This is her, grown up. Somehow, those people can always seem to sense a high school misfit in their midst. Maybe my un-manicured nails gave me away, or that little bit of residual baby spit up that I just can't seem to get off my black sweater. Whatever it was, the vibe was off from the minute I sat down. I started my pitch and she listened for a minute before stopping me.
"I have to be honest and tell you off the bat that this isn't a project I'd be interested in. It's too hard a sell, and I just don't feel like you have a strong platform."
Now, I've read a ton of publishing books, but somehow I missed the part about platforms. I figure I can make a good educated guess though, so I start talking about professional communities I'm a part of, and ways that I feel I could promote the book.
"That's not what I mean," she said. "I like my authors to come to me with a strong media presence. For example, last week a woman was attacked by one of her students. She'll be able to sell her book."
"I just duck well." I smiled. "So, are you saying that if I get attacked, we might have something?"
"No, that's not what I'm saying."
I figured we were probably done. I shook her hand and thanked her for her time.
The worst part was that out in the lobby, other people were waiting to go in and they were all looking for hints as to their own fates. A thumbs up, a tearful explosion of emotion, something. I talked to one of the guys I had been waiting with who was there to pitch a multi-generational war saga. I told him to play up any bodice ripping and he might get somewhere.
Later, five agents spoke as part of a panel. They were all pleasant and professional, but, as expected, what they had to say was discouraging at best. There's less than a 1 percent chance of getting signed by most agents based on the numbers they were throwing out there. I don't know where that would put me in comparison to being struck by lightning, but I'm going to guess my chances in a field in a heavy storm would be better. But then, I kind of knew that. Some of their advice was a bit obvious, like, "make sure you include your name and contact info with your book proposal or query." Come on, who wouldn't do that?
After the panel, I talked to one agent who told me straight up that the ubiquitious first year teacher memoir is something she gets tons of every week. I get that. We teachers are a navel gazing bunch and we do tend to like to write. But, people buy those books. Or, at least, they seem to based on the number of them out there. The agent told me to go ahead and send her my book proposal, with an emphasis on why this isn't like all the rest. Note to self: do some soul searching to figure out why it's not like all the rest.
Another agent I spoke to went to my college. That was a good contact, and a proposal is headed his way. But, I was embarrassed to tell him that it's a first year teacher memoir. I'm starting to feel like that's there with the "how I got abducted by aliens" memoir. I left things pretty vague.
Then, in the parking lot, I started talking to the other agent from the panel. She asked what my book was about, and I told her that it's the "ubiquitious first year teacher inner city memoir, with out the Michelle Pheiffer violin playing." (This, by the way, is NOT a way to pitch a book.) Amazingly enough, she said she'd like to take a look at it. I told her I could send it, or I could give her the copy I had with me (the one that was earmarked for the agent who didn't want to read it.) I figured that if she could read it over the weekend it would be less likely to end up on a sludge pile in her office.
"I'd love to take a copy of the proposal to read this weekend," she told me.
Score one for me.
In the car driving home I realized that, because that one didn't have a cover letter, it didn't have my contact information.
Yeah, that sucked.
Was it a good day? I guess that all depends on ones definition of good. It was a great learning experience, but all in all it felt like a series of bad blind dates. I hate the feeling of being rejected by a romance agent. I mean, it's clearly not a good fit, but still, I want to be the breakup-er not the breakup-e.
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