Pitching. . . and I don’t mean Baseball

Tomorrow is the big day . . . CT Fiction Fest. Tomorrow, I will be pitching my book Mystic Ink  and maybe Ascension to four editors. Editors from brand name publishing houses.

Am I biting my nails? No.

Am I starting to panic? Not really.

I have my pitches all written and mostly memorized.

Don’t get me wrong. I will do my best to entice and impress, but not at the cost of my sanity.

I will not lay in bed tonight obsessing about what might happen. Like I’ll open my mouth, but no words will come out because all rationale thought has abandoned me.

I will not imagine myself babbling like an idiot at the poor editor seated across from me. Or that I’ll rattle off my pitch at warp speed like an auctioneer.

I will not entertain the panicky thought that I’ll lose track of time and forget an appointment.

Nope. Not doing it. Not going there.

After saying good-bye to my precious Ollie, I had a bit of an epiphany. On the scale of cosmic importance, pitching my book and how well I do, will not affect the fate of the known universe. If I fail to impress, I will still submit my books to editors safely hidden behind my query’s printed words (no babbling going on there).

I will still work on my next two books.

I will still write.

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4 thoughts on “Pitching. . . and I don’t mean Baseball

  1. I had a dream last night that I showed up at my appointment with one of the editors and handed her a few pages of a manuscript. Imagine my horror when I realized that each page was full of glaring typos and misspellings! I think this is related to the kind of dream where you are walking through your high school cafeteria and realize you are missing some important items of clothing to cover strategic parts of your body. No matter what our subconscious minds are working through, I know we will all do fine tomorrow.

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