“We’ve discussed this before and I’m aware of your feelings on the subject,” I pushed on. “I believe that last chapter will prevent this book from selling, and I know how much you want this series to be a success. Calliope, if I didn’t truly care about your work, I wouldn’t be saying any of this.” I reached across the table and touched her hand. “Will you rewrite the ending?”
After a long moment of silence, Calliope squeezed my hand. “I trust you, Lila. I don’t know why, since you’re a relatively green agent, but I do. I’ll revisit the finale.”
I could have hugged her, but instead I applauded her flexibility and told her I’d be anxiously awaiting the revised version.
Calliope wanted to mull over her project on the way back to her car, so we parted inside the grocery store.
Heading back to the festival, I was so buoyed by self-satisfaction that I barely noticed the rain. By the time I showed up for my first pitch appointment, however, my suit jacket was peppered with wet drops.
Just outside the former courtroom where Jude and I planned to host our pitch sessions, I bumped into Vicky. She looked me up and down, made a noise that clearly expressed she found me wanting, and then rummaged in her handbag for tissues and a compact. I hastily wiped away the raccoon eyes created by my running mascara and applied some fresh lipstick from my own purse.
The buzz from within the room tied my stomach into knots. “I’m nervous,” I confessed to Vicky.
“Follow your instincts. You have good judgment. After all, you hired me, didn’t you?”
I could have sworn I saw her lips twitch with amusement, but there was no time for further study. I took my place at one of two small tables set up at the front of the room.
Jude caught my eye and winked. Standing, he cleared his throat. “Welcome, writers.” His words silenced the chatter in the room. “I’m Jude Hudson, agent for thrillers and suspense novels, and this is Lila Wilkins. She represents romantic and traditional mysteries. We know you are all energized and maybe even a teeny bit anxious, but try to stay calm and present us with your best pitch. I promise we’ll be kind.” Judging by the worshipful stares he was receiving from the majority of the women in the audience, he could have been talking about the nuances of tax law and they would have listened attentively.
After Jude relayed instructions on how we would proceed, each of us called the first name on our appointment schedules, and the pitch sessions were under way.
A slim woman in her midtwenties approached my table, papers vibrating in her hands as rapidly as hummingbird wings.
“It’s okay. I know exactly how you feel,” I said gently. “Just breathe.”
The young woman gave me a grateful smile, took a seat, and told me her name. She then took my advice, inhaled deeply, and presented her pitch.
“I’ve written a young adult trilogy similar to The Hunger Games. You’ve heard of the books by Suzanne Collins?”
I nodded, disappointed that she’d begun her pitch by concentrating on another author’s work instead of pointing out the merits of her own.
“In my series, starting with The Ring, gladiator matches are fought between supernatural creatures. For example, goblins fight dwarves, fairies battle trolls, et cetera. The winner of the games gets extra magic for their race. It’s really fast-paced and I’ve done a ton of research on mythical creatures. Anybody who likes J. R. R. Tolkien will love The Ring.”
The young woman’s idea wasn’t half bad. In fact, it was quite creative, but her pitch was overly brief and too focused on name-dropping. Hers might have been the first pitch I’d ever heard, but I didn’t need to be a veteran agent to recognize that I’d been given no sense of voice from this writer. She hadn’t even mentioned the existence of a main character. Tactfully, I thanked the woman, gave her advice on the information she needed to include during future pitch appointments and queries, and wished her the best of luck.
With the first pitch session out of the way, my initial anxiety abated. I leaned back and took a deep breath. This was certainly more direct than dealing with written queries, and it was important for me to be sensitive to the person sitting across the table, but I felt a certain satisfaction in giving an immediate verbal response. I could only hope that all the writers I’d meet today would be as receptive to my advice as the first.
I looked around the room at the tense and nervous aspiring authors. Along the wall, people were sitting and standing. Most were clutching papers, and although a few were chatting to one another, the majority waited in silence. Jude was listening intently to a woman wearing a maroon cape.