SavageTimes

I’ve received my first rejection for my novel, REUNION AT LAKE WHISPER, from an agent I met at the Pacific Northwest Conference last summer.  She wasn’t one of the agents I received an appointment with during the one-on-one sessions conference attendees were able to register for.  In fact, when I looked at her bio in the conference guide, I honestly didn’t think my book would fit into her marketing niche.

But when I heard her speak during the Agent/Editor Round Table, I was drawn to her: her upfront, take-no-prisoners, I-don’t-have-time-for-BS personality resonated with me in the same way that words do and story does, when I’ve finally got them down just right, when the pattern of the page reflects the vision in my head.  Conference attendees were encouraged to seek out agents and editors, even if we didn’t have appointments with them, and give them our elevator pitch—the summary of our projects in anywhere from one to three sentences that would tell it all without giving anything away. I felt driven to give this particular agent my pitch, and I began looking for her in the crowds, pushing my way through clusters of writers whenever I caught a glimpse of this agent as if I were a CIA agent who’d spotted her target in the latest spy movie.

The second afternoon of the conference, I found myself in an elevator full to capacity with agents and editors, including my target.  I was the only writer in there.  I was speechless, the souls of my sandals rooted to the floor, my tongue stuck somewhere so deep in my throat I was certain it had vanished completely.  I toyed with the idea of hitting the emergency stop button, but my brain was caught in a doomed spin of “Oh, my God.  Ohmygod. OHMYGOD.”  I felt like I was in high school all over again, and any male—good looking or disheveled– who so much as smiled at me wiped my brain of all thought.

When the elevator stopped, my target strode off alone. I didn’t think. I let instinct take over and suddenly, I was following her, my strides matching hers until I was beside her, introducing myself, talking to her.

To paraphrase one of my favorite songs, I didn’t know I was built so strong.

My target welcomed my pitch, her eyes focused on mine with a keen-eyed intensity, and when I finished stumbling and fumbling through my pitch, she asked me questions for which I hadn’t expected or prepared. I answered her as best as I could, certain I sounded lame and dull-witted even before I got back to my hotel room and lay on the bed considering hysterical laughter or sedate tears. Still, she invited me to send my book to her and gave me her card and submission instructions.

I was smoother at my pitch when I talked to the other agent and editor I had appointments with later in the weekend.  I had better answers to their questions, and I felt like I gave a better overall presentation.  Both invited me to submit my novel when it was completed. Still, my conversation with my first target stuck with me, and she was the light at the end of my tunnel—the hope I kept out there as I worked feverishly to complete my book.

Although she did not choose to work with me, I don’t regret the day I found the courage to talk to her or the time I spent putting together my submission for her.  My instincts have never failed me, when I follow them, and there is a larger purpose here then the simple fact of me signing with her: she told me I am a good writer, that my book is darker than she’d originally thought, and that she doesn’t think “dark” is marketable right now. She continue to be a light for me, because she also told me she hopes I prove her wrong.

So do I.