Pitching a pitch By Eunice Matchett

Books, books, and more books. The brain food for introverts. Companions to loners. To write one, the temporary goal of almost every grade six student. And that included me.

My high marks in grade school language convinced me I could spin a fair tale, and over years I continued to spasmodically practice my gift.  But, as every writer knows, writing isn’t that easy. Except for the basics, most of what I learned in high school English I needed to relearn. Like adjectives. In my day, the more you used, the better. Now, I consider them verbal dysentery.  

Over the years, I continued to learn, and my stories improved. I poked my head out of my introvert shell and submitted some stories to magazines and Sunday school papers. Many were accepted, and they even paid me to publish them. I was on cloud nine, but my real dream was novels.

I rolled up my sleeves and went to work on a historical story. Research became my second name, but I loved it and learned so much. Several years later, with help from a small online crit group my baby was born. I searched my Writers Market for a publishing house only to find out it wasn’t the way to go. I needed to attend a writers conference and pitch my story to an editor or an agent.

On the suggestion of a good crit partner, I attended the ACFW conference. While I pitched my story my knees vibrated to a tune only they knew. My heart became a drum at a rock concert and my head turned into a balloon in the process of being blown up. My ‘one sheet’ stuck to my glistening fingers as I attempted to hand it to the editor. I don’t recall what the editor or I said but two hours later, as I looked at a sodden business card clinging to my still perspiring hands I realized she’d asked for a proposal.

 I came home and went to work on a proposal, but life doesn't always beat to our tune. Within a month I was a widow. My desire to write went on an extended holiday. The horror of my editor experience magnified. Just thinking about it, sends my heart into panic mode.

As time passed, I started to write again, completing three more novels, but they won’t be pitched at a writer’ conference. I’m not sure I could physically survive another editor experience. On the upside, my historical baby is being published through Kindle, and this time I’m more comfortable with the process and I don’t feel like I’m about to induce a cardiac arrest.