As we head into the final days of prep before the Conference That Shall Not Be Named (which happens to be my local one), I’m feeling pretty good about our collective level of pitch preparedness, aren’t you? We’ve covered acres of ground over the last few weeks: we’ve gone over how to narrow down your book’s category (June 26-27), figured out who your target market is (June 27-28), brainstormed selling points for your book (June 29-July 1) and a platform for you (June 19, July 1, July 6), and constructed a snappy keynote statement (July 1-2). We’ve practiced introducing ourselves and our work with the magic first 100 words (July 2), learned to keep it pithy with the elevator speech (July 3-6), and to be ready for the happy accidents chance may provide with a hallway pitch (July 7-8).
Finally, we’ve spiced up your pitch with great details (July 9, 11), and pulled it all together into an attention-grabbing formal 2-minute pitch (July 10, 12, 13, 14). Not only that, but we’ve talked about forming realistic expectations (June 20-21; July 12-13), dealing with some of the bogeymen that frighten pitchers (June 20, 21, 24; July 6 and 9), including what to do if a pitch session goes hideously awry (June 24);
Since we’ve all been so very good for so very long, I have a fun-but-practical topic for today: what materials should you bring with you to a conference — and, more importantly, to your agent and editor meetings?
Other than good, strong nerves, an iron stomach, and faith that your book is the best literary achievement since MADAME BOVARY, of course.
At minimum, you’re going to want a trusty, comfortable pen and notebook with a backing hard enough to write upon, to take good notes. You’ll also want to bring all of the paperwork the conference organizers sent you, including a copy of your conference registration, information about your agent and/or editor appointments, and tickets to any dinners, luncheons, etc. for which you may have paid extra (as, alas, one almost invariably does now at literary conferences).
Do NOT assume that the conference organizers will have this information on hand — remember, most writers’ conferences are organized by hard-working volunteers; details occasionally fall through the cracks –or even access to their computers to double-check. Few literary conferences are held in the offices or homes of the organizers, after all, and while being able to get into the dinner where you paid $60 to hear the keynote speaker may be vitally important to you, the volunteers on site will probably neither have the time nor the inclination to run home to double-check a misprinted list of attendees.
All of which is to say: if you registered electronically, make sure to bring a hard copy of the confirmation. And if everything goes perfectly when you check in, please remember to thank the volunteer who helped you.
As my grandmother used to say: manners cost nothing.
While you’re printing things out, go ahead and produce a hard-copy confirmation of your hotel reservation as well, if you’re not attending a conference that permits you to sleep in your own bed at night. I hate to be the one to break it to you, but it is not at all unheard-of for a hotel hosting a conference to over-book.
Also, it’s a good idea to bring a shoulder bag sturdy enough to hold all of the handouts you will accumulate and books you will buy at the conference. This is not an occasion for a flimsy purse.
Don’t underestimate how many books you may acquire. It’s rare that a literary conference doesn’t have a room devoted to convincing you to buy the collected works of conference speakers, local writers, and the folks who organized the conference. (At the Conference That Shall Not Be Named, for instance, only organization members’ and conference presenters’ work are typically featured.)
Don’t expect any discounts — because the conference typically gets a cut of sales, offering a members’ discount seldom seems to occur to organizers — but it’s usually child’s play to get ’em signed. Even if the author is not hovering hopefully behind a pile of his literary output, if he’s at the conference at all, he’s going to be more than happy to autograph it. Don’t be shy about walking up to ‘em in hallways and after speeches to ask; this is basic care and feeding of one’s readership.
Do be aware, though, that when major bookstore chains organize these rooms (and at large conferences, it’s often a chain like Barnes & Noble), they often take an additional payment off the top, so a self-published author may well make less per book in such a venue.
This is not to say that you should hesitate to purchase a book from the writer with whom you’ve been chatting in the book room for the last half an hour. You should. However, if the book is self-published, you might want to ask the author if s/he would prefer for you to buy it elsewhere.
Speaking of requests folks in the industry are thrilled to get, if you are struck by a particular agent or editor, you can hardly ask a more flattering question than, “So, are there any books for sale here that you worked upon? I’d like to read a couple, to get a sense of your taste/style/why on earth anyone would want to spend years on end editing books about horses and flamingos.”
By the way, at a conference that offers an agents’ or editors’ panel (and most do), do not even CONSIDER missing it. Attendees are expected to listen to what the agents and editors are seeking at the moment and — brace yourself for this — it does not always match what was said in the conference guide blurb.
There was a reason that I used to post the recent sales of agents and editors scheduled to attend the Conference That Shall Not Be Named: tastes change. So does the market. But blurbs tend to get reused from year to year.
No comment — except to say that you will be a much, much happier camper if you keep an ear cocked during the agents’ and editors’ fora to double-check that the agent to whom you were planning to pitch a vampire romance isn’t going around saying, “Heavens, if I see ONE more vampire romance…”
In addition to noting all such preferences in my notebook, I always like to carry a few sheets of blank printer paper in my bag, so I can draw a diagram of the agents’ forum, and another of the editors’, to keep track of who was sitting where and note a few physical characteristics, along with their expressed preferences in books.
Why do I do this? Well, these fora are typically scheduled at the very beginning of the first full day of the conference — a very, very long day.
By the time people are wandering into their appointments at the end of the second day, dehydrated from convention hall air and overwhelmed with masses of professional information, I’ve found that they’re often too tired to recall WHICH editor had struck them the day before as someone with whom to try to finagle a last-minute appointment.
Being able to whip out the diagrams has jogged many a memory, including mine. It’s also a great help a month or two after the conference, to help you remember which of the dozen agents who spoke struck you as worthwhile to query instead of pitching, and which left you with the impression that they eat books, if not aspiring writers, for breakfast.
On my diagrams, the latter tend to be depicted with horns, pitchfork, and tail. But that’s just me.
I always, always, ALWAYS advise writers to bring bottled water to conferences — even to ones where the organizers tend to be very good about keeping water available. A screw-top bottle in your bag can save both spillage and inconvenience for your neighbors.
Why? Well, when you’re wedged into the middle of a row of eager note-takers in a classroom, it’s not always the easiest thing in the world to make your way to the table with the pitcher on it, nor to step over people’s legs with a full glass in your hand.
If I seem to be harping on the dehydration theme, there’s a good reason: every indoor conference I have ever attended has dried out my contact lenses, and personally, I prefer to meet people when my lenses are not opaque with grime.
I’m wacky that way. If your eyes dry out easily, consider wearing your glasses instead.
Even if you have perfect vision, there’s a good reason to keep on sippin’. If you are even VAGUELY prone to nerves — and who isn’t, while preparing to pitch? — being dehydrated can add substantially to your sense of being slightly off-kilter. You want to be at your best. Lip balm can be helpful in this respect, too.
Both conferences and hotels, like airports, see a lot of foot traffic, so the week leading up to the conference is NOT the time to skip the vitamins. I go one step further: at the conference, I dump packets of Emergen-C into my water bottle, to keep my immune system strong.
If this seems like frou-frou advice, buttonhole me at a conference sometime, and I’ll regale you with stories about nervous pitchers who have passed out in front of agents. Remember, if you find yourself stressed out:
-Take deep breaths.
-Don’t lock your knees when you’re standing.
-If you need to sit down, say so right away, no matter who happens to be standing in front of you.
-Don’t drink too much coffee, tea, or alcohol.
-If you’re feeling nervous or scared, talk about it with some nice person you met in the hallway, rather than keeping it bottled inside.
Trust me, this is a time to be VERY good to yourself. A conference should not be an endurance test. If I had my way, the hallways at any pitching conference would be lined with massage chairs, to reduce people’s stress levels.
While I’m sounding like your mother, I shall add: don’t try to pitch on an empty stomach.
I’m VERY serious about this — no matter how nervous you are, try to eat something an hour or so before your pitch appointment. When I ran the Pitch Practicing Palace (a safe space for those new to the game to run their pitches by agented writers BEFORE trying them out on an agent or editor, to weed out potential problems), I used to keep a bowl of candy on hand, because so few pitchers had remembered to feed themselves.
Trust me, even if your stomach is flipping around like the Flying Wallendas on speed, you’ll feel better if you eat something. If you are anticipating doing a lot of hallway pitching, or dislike the type of rubber chicken and reheated pasta that tends to turn up on conference buffets, you might want to conceal a few munchies in your bag, to keep yourself fueled up.
It’s also not a bad idea to bring along some mints, just in case you start to feel queasy. As a fringe benefit, the generous person with the tin of Altoids tends to be rather popular in the waiting area near the pitching appointments.
Since you will most likely be sitting on folding chairs for many, many hours over the course of the conference, you might want to bring a small pillow. I once attended a conference where instead of tote bags, the organizers distributed portable seat cushions emblazoned with the writers’ organization’s logo.
You should have heard the public rejoicing.
In the spirit of serious frivolity, I’m going to make another suggestion: carry something silly in your bag, a good-luck charm or something that will make you smile when your hand brushes against it. It can work wonders when you’re stressed, to have a concealed secret.
Honest, this works. I used to advise my university students to wear their strangest underwear on final exam day, for that reason — it allowed them to know something that no one else in the room knew.
(It also resulted in several years’ worth of students walking up to me when they turned in their bluebooks and telling me precisely what they were wearing under those athletic department sweats — and, on one memorable occasion, showing me à la Monica Lewinsky. Allegedly. So I say from experience: resist the urge to share; it’s disconcerting to onlookers.)
If you suspect you would be uncomfortable wearing your 20-year-old Underroos or leather garter belt (sorry; you’re going to have to find your own link to that) under your conference attire, a teddy bear in your bag can serve much the same purpose. Anything will do, as long as it is special to you.
So far, my advice has been concerned with your comfort and welfare. From here on out, the rest of today’s tips will be all about networking.
That’s right, I said networking. Conferences are about CONFERRING, people.
Because you will, we hope, be meeting some God-awfully interesting at your next writers’ conference, you will want to bring some easily transferable pieces of paper with your contact information printed on it: a business card, for instance, or comparably sized sheets from your home printer.
I mention this now, so you may prepare in advance. Having to scrabble around in your tote bag for a stray scrap of paper upon which to inscribe your vitals every time you meet someone nice gets old FAST.
Besides, if you file a Schedule C to claim your writing as a business, the cost of having the cards made is usually tax-deductible — and no, in the US, you don’t necessarily have to make money as a writer in every year you file a Schedule C for it. Talk to a tax advisor experienced in working with artists. Heck, all of those books you buy might just be deductible as market research.
Seriously, it is VERY worth your while to have some inexpensive business cards made, or to print some up at home, for two excellent reasons. First, it’s always a good idea to be able to hand your contact info to an agent or editor who expresses interest in your work. They don’t often ask for it, but if they do — in a situation, say, where an editor from a major press who is not allowed to pick up an unagented book REALLY wants to hook you up with an agent — it’s best to be prepared.
Second, unless you make a point of sitting by yourself in a corner for the entire conference, you are probably going to meet other writers that you like — maybe even some with whom you would like to exchange chapters, start a writers’ group, or just keep in contact to remind yourself that we’re all in this together.
The easier you make it for them to contact you, the more likely they are to remain in contact. It’s just that simple.
I would urge you to avoid the extremely common mistake of walking into ANY writers’ gathering thinking that the only people it is important for you to meet are the bigwigs: the agents, the editors, the keynote speakers. It requires less energy to keep to yourself, true, but it is a tad elitist, not to say short-sighted: in the long run, casting a wider acquaintance net will pay off better for you.
For one very, very simple reason: the more writer friends you have, the easier it is to learn from experience.
Why make your own mistakes, when you can learn from your friends’, and they from yours? What better source for finding out which agents are really nice to writers, and which are not? And who do you think is going to come to your book signings five years from now, if not that nice writer with whom you chatted about science fiction at lunch?
Obviously, if you can swing a one-on-one with the keynote speaker, go for it — I once spent several hours stranded in a small airport with Ann Rule, and she is an absolutely delightful conversationalist. Especially if you happen to have an abnormally great interest in blood spatter patterns. But I digress.
But try not to let star-watching distract you from interacting with the less well-known writers teaching the classes — who are there to help YOU, after all — or the writer sitting next to you in class. I have met some of the best writers I know by the simple dint of turning to the person rummaging through the packaged teas on the coffee table and saying, “So, what do you write?”
Don’t tell me that you’re too shy to handle this situation — I happen to know that you have a secret weapon. Remember those magic first hundred words? This is the time to use ’em.
Believe me, it’s worth doing. Someday, some of your fellow conference attendees are going to be bigwigs themselves — realistically, can you rule out the possibility that the person sitting next to you in the session on writer’s block ISN’T the next Stephen King? — and don’t you want to be able to say that you knew them when?
And even if this were not true (but it is), writing is an isolating business — for every hour that even the most commercially successful writer spends interacting with others in the business, she spends hundreds alone, typing away. The more friends you can make who will understand your emotional ups and downs as you work through scenes in a novel, or query agents, or gnaw your fingernails down to the knuckle, waiting for an editor to decide whether to buy your book, the better, I say.
No, but seriously, folks, even the most charmed writer, the one with both the best writing AND the best pure, dumb luck, has days of depression. Not all of us are lucky enough to live and work with people who appreciate the necessity of revising a sentence for the sixth time. Writers’ conferences are the ideal places to find friends to support you, the ones you call when your nearest and dearest think you are insane for sinking your heart and soul into a book that may not see print for a decade.
So stuff some business cards into your conference bag along with a folder containing several copies of your synopsis AND five copies of the first five pages of your book, as a writing sample.
Why five pages, specifically? Well, not all agents do this, but many, when they are seriously taken with a pitch, will ask to see a few pages on the spot, to see if the writing is good enough to justify the serious time commitment of reading the whole book.
Having these pages ready to whip out at a moment’s notice will make you look substantially more professional than if you blush and murmur something about printing it out, or simply hand the agent your entire manuscript.
Don’t, however, bother to bring your entire manuscript with you to the conference, UNLESS you are a finalist in one of the major categories. You will never, ever, EVER miss an opportunity by offering to mail or e-mail it instead.
In fact, agents almost universally prefer it. This is often true, bizarrely, even if they insist that they want to read it on the airplane home.
Why the exception for the contest finalists? Well, agents tend to be pretty competitive people. The primary reason that an agent would ask for the whole thing right away, in my experience, is if he is afraid that another agent at the conference will sign you before he’s had a chance to read it — and the writers who tend to be the objects of such heart-rending scenes of jealousy are almost invariably those sporting blue ribbons.
So while I have known agents to read a chapter or two of the winners’ work in their hotel rooms, the chances of its happening in the normal run of a pitch day are roughly the same as finding the complete skeleton of a dinosaur in your back yard.
It could happen — but it doesn’t really make sense to plan your life around a possibility that remote.
Otherwise, don’t hurt your back lugging the manuscript box around; the sample will do just as well. And no, don’t bother to bring an electronic copy of your book — it’s actually considered rather rude to hand out CD-ROMs willy-nilly.
Why? Well, because not everyone is as polite as my lovely readers. It’s not at all uncommon for a total stranger to come charging up to an agent, editor, or someone like yours truly at a conference, shove a soft copy into our astonished hands, and disappear, calling back over her retreating shoulder, “My contact information’s on there, so you can let me know what you think of it.”
Without exception, electronic media presented in this manner ends up in the trash, unread.
Why? Well, apart from the general impoliteness involved in insisting that just because someone is in the industry, s/he has an obligation to read every stranger’s work, there’s also the very real risk that a stranger’s disk is going to be infected with a computer virus; it would be rather imprudent even to try to check out its contents.
Even if the recipient happened to have a really, really good firewall, this method also conveys a tacit expectation that the recipient is going to go to the trouble and expense of printing the book out — or risk considerable eyestrain by reading an entire book onscreen. Not very likely.
These days, if an agent or editor wants an electronic copy of your book, s/he will ask you to e-mail it. Trust me on this one.
Regardless, your 5-page sample should be in hard copy. If you feel that an excerpt from the end of the book showcases your work better, use that, but if you can at all manage it, choose the first five pages of the book as your sample — it just exudes more confidence in your writing, as these are the first pages a screener would see in a submission.
From the writer’s POV, the sole purpose of the writing sample is to get the agent to ask you to send the rest of the book, so although I hammer on this point about twice a month here, I’m going to say it again: as with everything else you submit to any industry pro, make sure that these pages are impeccably written, totally free of errors, and in standard format.
Seriously, this is not a moment when you want your pages to cry out, “The author’s unfamiliar with the standards of the industry!”
If the fact that there IS a standard format for manuscripts — and that it does NOT resemble the formatting of published books — is news to you, rush into the archives at right immediately, and take a gander at the STANDARD FORMAT BASICS and STANDARD FORMAT ILLUSTRATED categories at right. Or you could simply hold off on showing anything to anyone in the industry for a couple of weeks, until I’ve gone over these topics again.
Stop groaning, long-time readers; we all could use a refresher from time to time. As long as I am writing this blog, no reader of mind is going to have his or her work rejected simply because s/he didn’t know what the rules of submission were.
For the rest of this week, I shall be wrapping up the last loose ends of conference lore and etiquette, before moving on to how to put together a submission packet (you didn’t think I’d let you jump into THAT alligator pit all by yourself, did you?), how to apply the skills you’ve learned in this pitching series to query letters (ditto) — then finally, restfully, coming back to what we all love best, issues of craft, just about the time that the publishing industry will be heading off on its yearly collective vacation.
Never a dull moment here at Author! Author! Keep practicing those pitches, avoid dehydration like the plague, and keep up the good work!
6 Replies to “Enough of this serious, practical information about pitching — what about the frivolous stuff?”
Since we’re on the topic of frivolity . . . this is probably a semantic matter, but about those first five pages, which do you think most agents would prefer: prologue, or chapter one?
For me, the difference is the prologue sets up a premise that the book will be based on, while the first chapter introduces the protagonist.
Is one better than the other? Does it make a difference?
I’d probably go with the protagonist-introducer, Jake, unless the prologue is so fundamentally exciting (and I hope it is!) that it will make the requester long to jump into the rest of the story.
Am I recalling correctly that the best times to query are between September and Thanksgiving and then again from the end of January through July? I’m just catching up on my reading so my apologies if you’ve covered this recently.
Thanks in advance, Jen
You have it perfectly correct, Jen — although since work does tend to pile up a bit during the August holidays, I would probably wait until a week or two after Labor Day to query, personally.
I have to say that during the “unsaid conference” last year, I learned as much, if not more from those sitting next to me than from those paid to be there. In fact, one morning I was sharing my frustration at the breakfast table. I had had an appointment with a publisher the day before, along with a small group of others whose hopes were to be dashed. The publisher was a big Hollywood type, with an agency that worked with all kinds of talent. He let us go around giving a 30 second pitch and then knocked us all down like bowling pins in a seedy bowling alley and said that we were wasting our time and he could do nothing for us unless we had an agent. What a freakin’ waste of time, I thought.
So, sharing this with my tablemate over a moist cinnamon roll, I was surpised to learn that she was one of the conference organizers. She said, “Well, the publishers are really here to speak. But as organizers we don’t want them to be paid and then just sit for hours between speaking times so we set up these meetings, then we don’t feel like we’ve wasted our money. And conference-goers get the benefit of speaking with a publisher.” Man did I feel betrayed.
Since that time, I’ve rolled this over in my little pea-sized brain many-a-time. And I’ve come up with a solution. Why not announce what a publisher can and cannot do for a writer that weekend. Then set up the meetings as an “Ask -A-Publisher” format. Instead of pitching, let us spend a few minutes asking about the publishing industry. I wish I’d done that and I know that you have recommended that very thing Anne, though with agents I think. Anyway-I can’t go to the conference this year but thought it might help someone who is. ~Karen
Oh, if I had a dime for every time I’ve heard a story like that, Karen, I’d open a non-profit publishing house, one that could publish good work regardless of the current market! I wrote a post on this very subject not too long ago, in fact.
Your source was unusually honest, by the way — the standard answer when cornered is to say either that (a) there are back-room deals going on at the conference that the writers know nothing about (sometimes true), (b) if an agent really loves a pitch, he will sometimes tackle an editor at a behind-the-scenes party to talk about it (also occasionally true), and/or (c) down the line, it’s helpful for the agent if a newly-signed author can say, “Oh, I met Editor X, and he said that he’d like to see this once I had an agent.”
Your idea is an excellent one — have you considered sending it as a suggestion to the conference in question? I’m afraid my stock with the organizers is not what it once was (thus the lack of pitching prep classes this year and last).