Pitching a story is a life skill for writers

Winning The Hook at scbwicon15So here’s something I had no clue how to do a year ago: briefly tell someone about the story I’d written in a way that makes the listener want to read it. But last weekend I won a SCBWI pitching contest where I had to stand up live on stage and pitch my story to a panel of top literary agents, in front of a capacity auditorium. It’s been interesting getting from A to B, and I’ll try to explain a bit of that journey here.

The pitching contest was the brainchild of SCBWI annual conference cochair Jan Carr, who saw something similar at the London Book Fair and wanted to bring this live pitch action to the UK SCBWI annual conference for children’s writers and illustrators. I had the same first reaction as everyone who heard about the contest – which they called “The Hook” – namely, “not on your life.” It’s hard enough putting a full-length book into just a few words, never mind doing it in a competitive setting, trying to be the pitcher who the panel of agents chooses as winner.

It’s a world gone mad

But then, as I mentioned in my July blog, I was getting ready to submit, and I realised I could use the query letter I’d been preparing for agents. Many literary agents in the United States accept only the query letter itself, which is just a brief pitch, with a bit of biographical detail about yourself. Some agents allow you to send a page or two, some want no pages at all. They’re curious to know, from your query letter alone, whether you can distill your story in a come-hither way.

So I went in for The Hook (which also let us submit the first 600 words, so the agents could read our story starts in advance). I’m positively thrilled to have won, which meant I was asked to select from the panel (in the vein of TV talent shows like The Voice) the agent I’d like a one-to-one meeting with.

Wait, what? Yes! The writer chose the agent, with all of the world-gone-mad connotations that implies, as Bill Murray said so well in GHOSTBUSTERS. Let’s hear it, Bill:

[iframe src=”https://www.youtube.com/embed/O3ZOKDmorj0?rel=0″ frameborder=”0″ allowfullscreen” width=”620″ height=”315″]

 

Writers-choosing-agents is absolutely not how the real world works when writers first query their work! I can imagine how weird and strange this felt for them, so my huge and humble thanks go to the agents Gemma Cooper, Amber Caravéo, Penny Holroyde, Julia Churchill and Felicity Trew who put themselves through this. You were so patient and helpful — I talked to so many writers afterwards who said how illuminating it was to hear your live critiques, articulating things about each story that we other listeners probably couldn’t have put into words. Yay and thank you! Please come again!

Here I am, with The Hook master of ceremonies Sara Grant, listening to the agents’ comments on why they’d chosen my manuscript, SEVEN PLACES LIKE HOME, as the overall winner. The agents are waiting to hear which of them I would choose. Like I say, world gone mad. But it was thrilling: my name got pulled from the envelope, and 5 min. later I had an agent’s business card in my hand and plans to set up our one-hour meeting.

the-hook-agent-panel

 

Just a few thoughts, then, on how I got from A (not being able to pitch) to B (Hook-mania):

  1. I joined SCBWI. If you’re not already a member of the Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators, here’s a perfect example of why you should consider it: not only do you get opportunities like The Hook, but you also get a supportive community of writers around you who can help you figure out things like how to distill your manuscript, how to find master classes and writers retreats that let you develop life-skills you need as a writer, whether you’re a newbie (pitching, character development and revision) or an old hand (school visits, social media, handling trolls, PLR). Most of all, your fellow Scoobies help you survive this soul-searching, soul bearing, heartbreaking business of book-making that we’re all enthralled by. The SCBWI writers from our Southeast Scotland SCBWI network were out in force at the conference, right there behind me as I stood on stage, and that meant more to me than I can probably describe right now or ever. Thank-you, guys. I’ve been a member since 2012 and it’s been awesome all the way. More on SCBWI here.
  2. I attended BookBound UK. This residential retreat is an application-only writing weekend which had its inaugural outing in 2014 and is now taking applications for 2016. I recommend it, because for me it was an invaluable weekend of character development, revision guidance, and critically live pitching practice, helping me grasp not just the heart of my story, but also the “why me” message I’d never really thought about, explaining why I wrote this book and not another book. More on BookBound here.
  3. A writer pitched his story to me. I went to the Edinburgh Lit Salon, where YA writer Roy Gill answered the question beautifully when I asked him what his book was about. Magically, with just a spoken sentence or two, he made me imagine that I was the main character, a boy whose father had just died, and whose weird grandmother was offering to bring Dad back from the dead (this is about The Daemon Parallel…go read it!). I resolved to learn how to pitch like Roy!
  4. I snooped around Twitter pitching contests. Contests like NoQS and PitchWars pair writers with a mentor who helps work on the writer’s pitch and opening page. The polished, finished manuscript excerpts, posted online, make it clear how high the bar is, if you’re a writer on submission. They make inspiring reading…go see PitchWars or scroll down here to see NoQS. I didn’t succeed in finding an agent when I took part in NoQS, but I met a great mentor and a new beta reader who’ve helped me tons.
  5. I workshopped my query and pitch. This step almost didn’t occur to me: run my query letter (and my live pitch) past fellow writers. Thank you Miriam, Louise, Anita, Celia, Fiona (and others I’m sure I’m forgetting) for your help!

This process has been a big eye-opener for me. I realised that, in learning to pitch, I came to know the true heart of my story — and love it — in a way I hadn’t known it before. Jasmine Richards, speaking at the #scbwicon15 writer’s craft session I attended last weekend, said that a book is always being sold, whether that’s at the beginning of the process when it’s writer-pitching-agent, or right down the end of the chain to a parent trying to interest their kid in reading the story (rather than playing on the PlayStation). A short, single hook sentence and a longer, one-paragraph summary will always be useful to — and used by — anyone who wants to share your story onwards. You’ll even have one kid telling another kid about your book, if you’re really lucky.

May we all be that lucky!

Have you tried summing up your book in a line, or a paragraph? What techniques work for you? 

 

The Hook agent panel photo is by George Kirk

Your manuscript: build the world and let it go

Bill Anders earthrise from the moon image courtesy NASA

I’m girding my loins for something many of my SCBWI friends already know well: the ordeal of submitting a finished manuscript to childrens’ literary agents. I’ve been here before, including with an early draft of the not-bad-but-could-be-more-sparkly science fiction novel I’m about to do the rounds with again. That experience last autumn was an eye-opener and a heartbreaker. Doesn’t matter how much you’ve heard about submissions: until you’ve put your own work forward to be judged by professional sales agents, you don’t know what words like inadequacy and anxiety really mean.

As one of my SCBWI friends Fiona said, I was one of the lucky ones, because while my early draft didn’t find an agent, I got a handful of “glorious rejections” that gave me hope, pointers on improvement and ample encouragement to send further projects to them for consideration (read: they didn’t want to see that manuscript again, even if revised).

But I have revised it, thanks to the incredible SCBWI network which connected me with a full-manuscript review from a Faber & Faber editor, courtesy of the SCBWI raffle prizes at last year’s Winchester conference. Have I mentioned what a lifesaver this incredible SCBWI organization is? On Christmas Eve, no less, the hard-working editor sent me a full editor’s letter analyzing the strengths and shortcomings of my manuscript, and packed with specific advice on ways to deepen it.

So that’s what I’ve spent the last four months doing: absorbing the Faber feedback and beta readers’ critiques, and using the remarkable resources I was introduced to by BookBound UK (they’re offering an amazing weekend workshop in Edinburgh September, by the way – don’t miss this if you’re a children’s writer in the area).

I realized, as I think I said recently on twitter, that all you really need to get published is an incredible idea, and the skill and discipline to work every day to tell it as dramatically as possible. But there’s something else I’ve realized, which is why I’m writing this post. You need a heart of Kevlar to find the agent who can sell your manuscript, if traditional publishing is the way you want to go (and it is the way I want to go).

Nerves and more nerves

In the last two days since I’ve finished my current revision, I’ve let myself think about what’s ahead: submitting the manuscript again. I’ve had to give myself a stern talking-to because I’m not up for a repeat of how I did it last time: compulsively checking the inbox, watching and wondering if agent tweets are about my manuscript, looking at who I’ve already submitted to and their reactions and trying to calculate – incorrectly – my odds of success.

I’m an ex-journalist and run my own copywriting business, and I regularly have to drum up business for myself and the other copywriters I employ, so I’m telling myself that’s how I’ll approach this agent search thing.

It’s no good – to anyone – if I approach potential agents like a craven supplicant seeking validation of my writing and myself as a person. Because rejections– if they come – aren’t about me, they’re about my product. In business, I contact potential customers who might need what I have to sell: in my case, it’s copywriting skills that can help virtually any company put themselves into words, even if their product is high-tech.

That’s how I’ll approach agents this time. They are, simply, sales agents (and, yes, career partners) who might very well need what I have to sell: a polished manuscript aimed at middle grade readers. The key difference from non-artistic products is that the agent doesn’t just need a well-written manuscript, he or she needs a “taste match” in order to take my manuscript further, and sell it on to influencers deeper within the industry that producers like me don’t have direct access to.

That means fiction writers have to cast their net several times wider, probably, than they might realize, because they’re looking for that elusive taste match: an agent who feels the manuscript chime with them, right down in their gut, because that’s the engine the project needs in order to find a home inside a publisher and a place in bookstores.

You’re a professional, not a supplicant

And – I’m just guessing here – if I were a literary agent, I don’t think I’d be too crazy about starting a professional relationship with a supplicant-style writer who’s approached me with a fabulous manuscript but a heavy dose of needy, demanding continuous contact and affirmation of their skill and worth. I probably can’t afford to devote that attention to any one writer if I’m to focus on my real job, which is closing deals.

But it’s so hard, isn’t it, for writers to trick themselves into maintaining that mental distance from what they’ve written? I reread what I’ve written above, and it all makes sense, but when I do start the submissions process how, truly, can I defuse the inevitable anxiety of it all?

I think the problem is the manuscript itself. A writer has so much grief and love tied up with the product they’ve made, and let go. The manuscript is like a planet: with such weight, such irresistible gravity, the closer you are to it. Only the distance of time and space can help you see it more clearly, and let the turbulent emotions of creation and separation mellow into something else, something like the wonder and admiration that others who had no part in its creation may feel.

So that’s my visualization I’m sharing with you: I’m picturing my manuscript from lunar orbit rather than satellite orbit, far, far away, a complete and finished blue marble that I can admire, but that I can still cover up with my thumb.

And yes, I’ll need to fly in to land at a later point if my book is taken by an agent or sold: there could be seismic changes and re-building on a global scale. But I’ll make the changes, and take off again to leave it behind. It’s my manuscript, but it’s not my home anymore.

I think of other things I’ve written – the small and big pieces of literature that all the writers around me have created – and so many of them drift around like aimless comets. Only a few become finished planets, settled in orbit, fully formed.

But I think they’re all beautiful. Whether it’s a dirty snowball or singing sphere, that star in the sky is the world you made, writer, and you can be proud.

Good luck to us all.

 

Image by Bill Anders: earthrise from the moon, courtesy NASA