Friday, August 13, 2010

Time to put up or shut up for Heritage Fields

So I got into the Pitch & Shop Conference.

Oh boy. I mentioned before, this could be a very expensive way of making a fool of myself. Or I can get a real jump on seeing Heritage Fields in print.

The conference runs four days with workshops to get your pitch perfected. Each person gets to pitch four editors over the course of the conference.

Cue JP's panic attack. I get nervous, okay? I'm easily tongue-tied, and yes I sometimes stutter when pushed. But I am working on it.

This conference will be a concentrated effort to get this project moving forward. It will be held at the tail end of September so I have one month to clean up my latest draft. The editors won't read the whole thing at the conference, they just want to hear the pitch.

But knowing the story from front to back will make the pitch that much better.

In the end, I will have a shot at pitching editors from publishing houses including Ace/Roc Books, Random House, St. Martin's Press, Penguin...

This is no bullshit. Time to bring the A game.

I may practice on camera a few times to critique myself. Maybe I will share the outtakes with you.

2 comments:

Shen said...

Good luck with publishing. One of these days I will finish my book and then, who knows, maybe I will take the leap and pitch, too.

acereporter73 said...

Thanks. Sometimes you have to think about how you will pitch while you are writing. I notoriously go off on tangents but then I think about how the heck do I sell it. That brings me back to terra firma.

Flame and Bone

When I was made from fire
Poured into the tender vessel of caution
That keeps my smoke from rising
Quickly did I discover that apart from crisp drizzles or falling snow
The world chilled my touched
Walking the narrow cornered gap between girders and cut stone
One learns to tuck his shoulders in or risk
Jostling a neighbor passing by rapt with want
For a clear path without the distraction
Of another man's boiling eyes
The tip of a finger
That oldest of all weapons
Grown deadlier and pristine in its invention
Gathers a mote of a cinder on its bare flesh
And turns pondering how best to scratch the impious itch
Prying open the tender seam
Where the oil of thought dews
Offering a new wick to ignite
Squirming alive as a salamander of mischief
That yearns for a taste of air it is so ready to devour
The steam of breath betrays me
Before the glint of orange spreads
In popping bright waves
Eroding the fibers feeding it
Leaving naught but ash
As my shell of quietude falls away