Madness!

My winter is winding down on an angry note. Okay, maybe not angry—just mad.

Let me explain…

Last Thursday I took part in a #PitMad pitch party. That’s where writers tweet pitches for their novels on a specific day using a specific hashtag that agents and editors will be following. A ‘like’ means they’re interested. Pitch parties have been on my one-day-maybe list for a while now, and I got more interested after a writer friend participated in one last year. Even though hers turned out to be a dud, I figured I had nothing to lose by just trying. So when I found out about the #PitMad event taking place on March 5, I decided to throw caution and pride to the wind and go for it.

Planner and strategist that I am, I wrote out my three allotted pitches well ahead of time, thought about them during just about every waking hour over the next couple of weeks, then tweaked them the night before based on feedback from my husband. I also plotted how I would space them out. The next morning—you guessed it—I tweaked them some more.

I had Thursday off from my day job, so I could dedicate the whole day to #PitMad. Although that sounded great at first, I quickly realized that meant I had the whole day to stress about it with no one to talk to except two cats who would be fast asleep by mid-morning.

Anyway, I tweeted my first pitch at 8:40 a.m., forty minutes after the official start. My first shock came when I refreshed the page to see if my tweet displayed correctly. In the seconds it took me to do that, there were at least 10 pitches that appeared after mine! The other shock was a pleasant one: within minutes I had a handful of retweets and one ‘like’ (although unfortunately, that ‘like’ turned out to be from a sketchy account that definitely was NOT an agent or editor).

After a few more retweets things calmed down, and then radio silence.

So I left my phone downstairs and headed up to the bedroom to iron while watching a King of Queens marathon on Lifetime. I checked throughout the morning between ironing, other housework, and binge-watching. More retweets, but no more ‘likes.’ At 1:40 I sent out my second, slightly re-worded tweet, and at 6:00 I sent my final one.

By the time this was all over, my house was sparkling.

Here’s how it all shook out: Altogether I got 15 retweets on my first pitch, 6 on my second, and 12 on my third—including two positive comments from other writers. Okay, I will not lie. I was pretty bummed that I didn’t get one agent or editor ‘like.’ But as I searched around online and read #PitMad-related tweets the following day, I came across a number of writers who said they participated multiple times without getting one ‘like,’ but still ended up finding an agent or editor through other means.

And two other positives came out of it: I now have a pretty decent tweet to pin to my Twitter profile, and I made a connection with a local kidlit writer.

By the way, here’s the third pitch:

A science nerd and proud of it, Priscilla resents an “airheaded” pop star tagging along on the first student trip to the moon. Upon arrival, a publicity stunt involving the two not only threatens to ruin Priscilla’s trip, but forces her to confront old wounds head-on.

I may try #PitMad again, but for now I need to focus on my next mad adventure. Starting Monday I’ll be participating in a Madness Poetry tournament, where I’ll be competing against children’s poetry writers from around the country. This is my first year and I’m up against a veteran “authlete,” so I’ll be thrilled if I can manage past the first round.

Stay tuned!

From the Rejection Files...

Okay, so I’ve had various versions of this blog post lurking inside my computer for months. The first one came across too gloomy, but my revisions all sounded like those “You can do it!” pieces that frankly irritate me.

So I decided to write a poem. Why? For one, I’ve been brushing up on my poetry lately, so my mind’s already in that mode. Also, I think I can manage more frequent blog posts if I choose to write them in verse.

Anyway, here it goes.

Layers

With shaky finger, racing heart,

Novice Writer taps the pop-up

message, and learns they’ve been

“Denied!”

Another gets a postcard punch

or envelope they inked and stamped

and hoped would never find its way

back home.

Pathways blocked, dreams denied,

some will toss their hands with

nonchalance belying pain—

and just give up.

Yet others,

hurt but spurred, with things to prove

(or nothing else worthwhile to do),

change, recast, create anew

and more denials come.

Through all the pinpricks, ego slaps,

True Writer doubts but carries on

as layers thin as onion skin,

thicken bit by bit.

Then suddenly, SUCCESS!

Hope and light surround the body,

fires kindle in the heart,

dreams begin to ponder

heights unknown!

That is, until that day arrives

when someone yanks the plug—

and hope and light and dreams

will end...for some.

Yet others,

bruised but driven, pricked but prodded

answer “No!” with earnest work.

Achievement may be redefined

but still they realize over time

“Denied!” might simply signify

“Not yet.”

The Lost Art of Walking

“Walking is a great way to boost your creativity.” I remember hearing that for the first time at a writers’ conference fifteen years ago (yes, I’ve been attending them that long). A Stanford University study recently backed up the claim, which doesn’t surprise me, since I’ve used walks to untangle my brain and put it back together again for as long as I can remember. Now that I work part-time and have two whole weekdays free to write, I usually break up my writing session with a long meander through the wooded trails behind my house. Not only do I think about what I’m writing, but I plan the rest of the day, pray, meditate, think lofty thoughts, and just enjoy the nature around me. I’m always back home before I know it (probably because my mind’s all over the place), returning refreshed, hopeful, and usually with a new idea or two. I’ve been even struck by the occasional “Eureka!” moment.

Me thinking deep thoughts while hiking in the mountains.

But it’s got me thinking—what about walking just for walking’s sake? Actually, what really got me thinking about it was a very old article outline I dug up while clearing out my files. It was going to be called “The Lost Art of Walking,” and I pitched it to a few women’s magazines—particularly the ones that seemed to have an article literally every issue titled “Walk Off the Pounds!” I had intended to explore the idea of just stepping through the front door and walking one’s own neighborhood, something that people seemed to do a lot more in the olden days (well, at least in the movies).

Nowadays, if you’re caught roaming the neighborhood without a dog on a leash, a baby in a stroller, or at least wearing some kind of exercise outfit (and preferably carrying hand weights), you might get a few peeks through curtains or side-eye glances from people heading to or from their cars.

Don't mind me. Just taking a stroll.

Really, some people will assume there’s something wrong with you. I remember chatting a while back with someone in law enforcement who referred to “the walkers” as if they had obvious mental issues. Now it could be that he was talking about people who exhibited additional troubling behaviors, but I’m sure there are plenty others who right away just think, “Okay, now why is this person just walking around the block for no reason?”

This is why we get into our cars and drive to designated walking places, or at least try to appear that there’s a good reason for us to be out walking aimlessly.

But we miss out. It can be quite interesting and fun to see how different things look from on foot as opposed to through a car window. Recently I took an extended walk through the rather large office park where I work. I decided to make a big circle and literally got confused on my way back to my building because things appeared so…well, different.

“You mean to tell me that picket fence has always been there? Huh...”

You not only notice things, but you also feel more connected to your surroundings. Think about it: If more people strolled their neighborhoods, those faceless, nameless beings we call neighbors become human. And after a while, we would notice when there really is some strange, suspicious figure lurking around and not go calling the cops prematurely.

Klaus and I have been taking regular strolls in the 24 years we’ve been married. We’ve gotten used to the stares. Now, I’m sure some could stem from the fact that we’re an interracial couple, but I’d like to think a lot of it is just the surprise of seeing people out walking for no reason—no leash, no sweats, no stroller. Although now that we live in a neighborhood bordering a wooded trail, the stares have mostly changed to greetings from other walkers.

Wherever life takes me, I’m going to keep on walking as long as my legs can carry me (and then I'll roll). It’s good for my mind, soul, and creativity...and maybe one day those pounds will “walk off,” too!