I caught the eye of a man who made me suck in a quick breath. His appearance reminded me of my imagined Kirk Mason. Tall and thin, the man wore jet-black pants and a blazer over a black turtleneck. His beard had been trimmed into a pencil-thin goatee, and his raven hair was short and spiky. A silver ring pierced both of his thick, dark eyebrows. It was eerie how closely he matched the image my mind had created for him. It was entirely possible that he was Mason. After all, the aspiring author had registered for the festival.
The man in black stood with one shoulder leaning against the wall near Jude’s table. His cold ebony eyes bored into mine. I quickly glanced away and called the next name on my list.
Ten pitches later, I felt as if I’d been participating in a bizarre form of speed dating. The stories presented to me had all jumbled together in my mind, and the writers’ faces had become a blur. I’d been regaled with clichéd tales of romance and murder and had yet to hear a pitch worthy of consideration. Heaving a big sigh, I scanned the remaining hopefuls in the room while calling my next person, one Ashley Buckland.
The sinister man in black narrowed his eyes, causing his eyebrow rings to glitter, and pushed away from the wall. Good Lord, he was coming to pitch his novel to me. I struggled to compose myself and straightened my papers. But then he veered away from me at the last moment, leaving a cloying, musky scent in his wake, and sat down in a vacant chair not far from Jude’s table. Jude, having just had a rotund, bald man push himself out of the seat across from him, turned and winked at me.
“Hello, I’m Ashley Buckland.”
A pleasant voice drew my attention back to my own table, and I looked up to see a gentleman of average height with short brown hair and wire-rimmed glasses standing by me. “Please, sit,” I said, gesturing to the seat at the other side of the table.
He cleared his throat and chuckled. “I guess you don’t usually get a man pitching a cozy, do you?”
I didn’t feel inclined to tell him that today was the first time I’d had anyone pitch anything to me, so I said, “I think a man can have a unique voice and perspective in a genre primarily written by females. Please, tell me your story.”
He glanced at the sheet of paper in his hands and placed it on the table. “I’ve written a humorous cozy about a group of househusbands who call themselves Men at Home. My main character, Will, is a relatively new stay-at-home dad, so he is invited to join these guys who, like him, have left the nine-to-five world to raise their kids while their wives are in the corporate rat race. They get together once a week at a playgroup for their kids to swap recipes and advice. When Will’s former boss gets murdered, Will becomes the chief suspect. The Men at Home band together to try and discover the real murderer, in between loading up the Crock-Pot, carting babies around in strollers, and folding laundry.”
“That’s definitely a unique approach,” I said. “And I could see it having a certain appeal to both the typical cozy reader and to men who don’t normally pick up the genre. Do you envision yourself writing more than one title?”
“Oh yes,” he said, nodding vigorously. As he described his ideas for the second, third, and even fourth book, I realized this could be a winner. Of course, I cautioned myself, it would depend on the quality of the writing.
When he finished, I handed him my card. “Email me your first three chapters along with your query, and put ‘Requested material for Lila Wilkins’ in the subject line. That way our assistant knows to forward it directly to me.” I smiled at him. “I hope to hear from you soon.”
Reenergized after that pitch, I felt that maybe something good would come out of this very long afternoon after all. I glanced around the room and called the next name on my list, T. J. West, the last appointment before a much-needed break. As the name left my tongue, I wondered if T. J. was a male or female.
Jude was deep in discussion with a young woman whose vibrant red hair was tied back in a ponytail. The creepy guy in black still sat near Jude’s table, staring intently at me. By the door, a woman stood chatting with a man with brown hair and glasses. When I called out for T. J., that man turned in my direction, but my eyes instinctively darted back to the man in black. At that moment he rose and walked to my table while at the same time, the man with the glasses was also approaching me. I knew I should have been focusing on him, because in all likelihood he was T. J. West, but I kept my attention on the sinister-looking man, who stopped at my table and placed a large raven feather in front of me without saying a word. Then he turned and left the room.