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.