My ABCs for Pitching a Novel

Always. Be. Choking.

I’ve been trying for decades to catch a big break. In the past three months I’ve been presented with two. And I blew both of them. Here’s my story.

I’m a capable person. I was gifted with a brain that is both curious and disciplined, intuitive and analytical. But mostly I’m patient. If it’s not obvious, I will take the time to figure it out. Except for surfing. I tried. No bueno.

At 15, the night before my band was to play at the school dance, I took apart my electric guitar and put it back together so I could fix a buzz in the unshielded pick-ups. At 26, armed with a music degree and no better options for feeding a new baby, I taught myself web design and programming and made a career. From 1995 to 2013, I recorded and released five albums independently. In 2009 I started a podcast and interviewed my songwriting heroes. In 2013 I wrote and published my first novel and since then I’ve written three more. I say all of this just to make the point that I know how to do things, even hard things.

Except pitch my creative work, for fuck’s sake.

I’m not a salesman. I couldn’t sell a toothbrush to a millionaire with a mouthful of manure. My dad is a great salesman. I didn’t get that gene. I don’t want to make people uncomfortable. I don’t want to pretend I’m all that (insert whatever that is in any given context). So, I carefully take aim at my foot and pull the trigger whenever there’s a chance someone might be a willing buyer of my wares.

I’ve procrastinated long enough. Let’s get on with my failures in hopes that they might be instructive or at least entertaining. The identities of the people I pitched have been redacted to spare further humiliation.

Failure #1: A Walk in the Park

In January, I was in the park with our five-year-old, Bella. There was no one else there except a wild little boy with corkscrew curls. He and Bella started playing the way kids do, becoming instant friends. The boy’s father approached and we started chatting in the way that grown-ups do who have no language to become instant friends.

“I work in the industry,” he said. Only people who work in entertainment say such things. Lot’s of movies and shows get made here in Atlanta now so it checked out. He went on to say that he runs a studio that produces some very popular and gruesome AMC series. His wife was there at a picnic table, nursing their infant. They invited me to sit and chat while the kids played.

“So, what do you do?” he asked.

I can never fucking answer this question with any confidence. I suspect most artists who don’t make a living with their art hate this question. It would be nicer to be asked: “who are you?” or “what do you enjoy?” but that’s not how the game works, especially if you’re a card-carrying American man. The ferrets in my brain began to wrestle. I chose to be bold, for once.

“I’m a writer, and a musician,” I said.

It was the first time in over thirty years that I didn’t include my artistic pursuits as a footnote to my money-making career. Of course, I quickly admitted that I was laid off from my career in tech and was taking a hiatus to pursue my art full time. Of course, I didn’t want him to make the mistake of leading him to believe I was professional and might possibly be any good. First shot fired.

“Cool,” he said. “What kind of stuff do you write?”

“Fiction,” I said.

“What kind?” he asked, his interest piqued.

At this point the ferrets in my brain found the cocaine. I could see the words in front of me. I knew there was a way to thread them into a line that would make him discover me and my brilliant work. We would co-produce a series that would make so much money that I would never have to make another powerpoint again.

“Uh, well… all kinds I guess. I wrote, err.. I’ve written four novels. The first one was kind of autobiographical, you know, about music because music has always been my first love.” Second shot fired. It’s always good to dilute and confuse your life’s purpose when pitching.

“Huh, interesting,” he said, unwilling to give up. “Tell me about one of your books. I read a lot and I like to help people when I can.”

The ferrets found the crystal meth now and chased it with a bowl of corn starch that turned my words into a stogy gravy that even the most kind and patient person couldn’t choke down.

“Well… let’s see. I wrote this book, my third novel about AI and violence, I mean the main character, she survived a shooting. It’s called the memory of my shadow. It’s in the future when AIG has already happened and like, she’s created this big empire because…”

Flies were beginning to gather around the remains of their Chick-fil-a breakfast. He shooed them away. He looked over my shoulder to check on the kids.

“It’s kind of a psychological thriller see,” I staggered on. “Her brother was the shooter in the deadliest school shooting in American history. I’ve always hated guns and I’ve worked in technology for a long time so…”

“Oh, you work in tech! Cool. Tell me more about how…”

Game over.

His wife looked up from the baby with what I can only describe as an expression of condolence. He kindly offered me his contact info and said I should send him the manuscript. I did. Later, I googled him. He was formerly the executive vice president of one of the oldest and most prestigious Hollywood studios. There were Instagram photos of him with Tom Cruise and Adam Sandler. I followed up. Persistence is politeness! After the third follow up in so many months he replied and apologized for “being a flake.”

“I enjoyed your writing but I didn’t respond to the story,” he wrote. “I usually gravitate towards horror or thrillers.”

I’m not sure what the over/under is on whether he actually read it or not, but who could blame him if he didn’t given my stellar pitch. There’s more than a little violence and creepiness in the back nine of “The Memory of My Shadow” so I suspect he fell asleep after the first couple of chapters with no attacks from the undead. I believe the catalyst for him responding at all was the one who offered the look of condolence as I blew off both my feet that day in the park while she nursed a child.

Failure #2: I Know This Guy at Work

I have a dear friend. He’s not an artist of any kind but he’s a big fan of my writing. We have worked for years in adjacent careers at various agencies. A couple of months back over a beer he was praising my most recent episode of “Harmony House.” He listens every Tuesday morning on the way into work.

“So, there’s this guy I work with, a creative director. You’ve got to meet him. He just sold the TV rights to his debut novel to [insert luminary movie producer and director here] and today he gave his notice at the agency.”

Apparently there was a bidding war with all the major Hollywood studios over said novel. My friend went on to say that this guy had had relative success as a writer but not enough to quit his day job until this new agent came along and then boom.

“I’ve been telling him all about you,” my friend said. “You guys should meet.”

He arranged it and we had coffee yesterday. I showed up thirty minutes early, confident I had left the ferrets and their firearms safely at home. He’s just another artist, I told myself. He was schlepping the same powerpoint corporate horseshit a month ago. You’ve got this.

He shows up right on time. We are mirror images. Tall, bald, white, beards, and hoodies. I lead by talking about my start-up-day-job-paying-the-bills-until-it-doesn’t project. He talks about his volunteer work. Then I segue.

“So, my friend tells me you’ve just been strapped to a rocket. That must be pretty great.”

“Well, it’s not my first success,” he says. “I have written three major Marvel characters.”

First shot, fired. Whenever possible, try to point out that person who’s spent a life time working their ass off is an overnight success.

He told me the surreal story of the bidding war over his book and of the text from his agent that simply said: buckle up. He told me the deal meant he might never have to work a day job again. Then he told me that the studios that lost the bidding war are optioning his second unwritten book and he definitely will never have to work a day job again. I nodded and smiled and maintained eye contact like I know exactly how this feels. And then he finishes, takes a sip of his coffee - he had asked for a mug, something I didn’t know you could do. I had a paper cup because I hate the environment. Second shot, fired.

“So, Ben, J. tells me you’ve written a novel too?” he asks.

This time the ferrets are in my bowels sloshing around with the two gallons of Chai I’ve consumed. Why do I immediately feel diminished, like he’s asking about my model car hobby?

“Ummm, yeah, yeah… I uh, I’ve written four books but the one you might be interested in is about AI.”

I just froze there. Maybe he thought I thought that was enough. His brow furrowed. He bit his bottom lip. I plunged forward. I’m not sure what I actually said. Words, I think. Violence, nature of consciousness, emotionality, character-driven, blah, blah, blah. Cool, that went well.

He gave a smile of condolence. Third shot, fired.

“I hate pitching,” he said. “That’s the only reason I want to make a lot of money. So I can pay other people to do it for me.”

I mightily agreed. He then proceeded to tell me the eighteen books he’s read on the subject and how he would spend months crafting log lines and then months rehearsing how to say them while standing on one foot and balancing a stack of China teacups on his head. He mentioned the names of a dozen writers I didn’t know. He must have seen the look of shame/horror/dumb-fuddledness on my face because he paused.

He was kind. Maybe he saw something of his own struggle in me.

“You know, I got better when I realized pitching is a skill that can be learned. It took me a while to understand that I had to apply myself to it in the same was I applied myself to writing.”

Then, he offered up an instructive performance. It was the pitch for his yet unwritten novel that the studio heads gave a verbal green light to just moments after hearing it over lunch on his last trip to L.A.

It was annoyingly perfect. It was like a truckload of MSG and MDMA packed into three sentences. I wanted to see that movie. I wanted to have its babies. He smiled. He offered to read my book. He asked if he could get it on Amazon because he only reads in print. I had to explain my weird Substack thing. I offered to travel back in time and print it out at my old job when I had access to a free copy machine. He declined. I offered to knit him a copy from the wool of virgin lambs. He is kind and flexible. He said he would borrow his wife’s Kindle if I sent him an electronic copy. I told him I had ordered his book and was looking forward to reading it. We talked for another thirty minutes beyond the allotted time about everything. It was great to talk with someone about all the weird things that happen inside my writer’s brain that only another writer can appreciate. He’s a good person, a kindred spirit, and it’s uplifting to know that good things can happen to good people. Good things might happen for me one day.

If I could just fucking figure out how to pitch.

The Moral of the Story

What I learned and maybe you might learn in a much less painful way is that it’s not enough to write a good story. It’s not enough to write a great story. If you ever want your story to be read by more than your mom or your partner, you must learn how to pitch it. Sure, there is the matter of luck and timing, but let’s not hand-wring over the things we can’t control.

Here is my guide to pitching for dummies/me and it won’t cost you anything. See, I just did it again— hopeless. I should really put a paywall right here.

1. People want to be wowed if you can get out of your own damned way.

2. They will not follow you through the backstory of your book.

3. Start with the hook. One sentence that captures the primary conflict.

4. Find the emotional center. Give them a reason to care about your protagonist.

5. End with a mystery. What will happen next?

That’s it. This guy with the big deals. He did this live and unprompted in a little coffee shop and it floored me. Pitching is an art form— one that I’ve taken a piss on for most of my life because I get rattled and it scares me. But I’m convinced it’s something that can be learned with practice. I will keep trying. Watch out.

I may iterate on pitches for both “Harmony House” and “The Memory of My Shadow” here in public so you can see the journey. Would this be interesting/useful to you?

Do You Have a Nightmare Pitch Story?

Don’t leave me hanging here. What’s the most embarrassing/humiliating time you’ve ever tried to convince someone to indulge your work? Spill.