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May. 8th, 2006 01:40 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
algI had a really interesting experience this past weekend. I was at the Silicon Valley Romance Writers' business conference thingie, and I did a 45 minute Q&A. I was asked:
What are the things that make you cringe during a pitch session?
My answer was twofold:
1. When someone sits down and says, "I submitted something to you a few weeks ago and I want to talk about what you thought."
Jeez! There is pretty much no way that I am going to remember your submission, if I have even read it yet, which is, frankly, unlikely. I mean, that is just absurd. Not to mention that even though I personally tend to go through my submissions myself (even if/when I have someone act as "first reader" on some), lots of other editors do not.
As I have said before, more than once, we are not paid to read submissions. Assistants are paid to read an editor's submissions (at least partially, anyway) -- editors are paid to edit. Editors are paid to make their companies money. Okay, yes, it is totally more complicated than that, and I am not being fair or realistic -- but come on. It's neither fair nor realistic to expect (a) that I would have even read your submission yet, or (b) that I'd remember it.
2. When someone sits down and says, "I don't have anything to pitch to you -- I just wanted to meet you."
By doing this, that person is taking time away from someone who could be pitching to me. If you want to meet me, hook up with me at the bar like everyone else. We'll do tequila shots, I'll show you pictures of my cats, and by the end of the night (or drink), you will have one of my business cards, and an invitation to send your work to me if it's the sort of thing I acquire.
And if you don't know what I acquire, Google my name.
(To use an example that isn't me, if you buy Hilary Sares a drink, and she gives you a card, and you're not sure that what you write is what she acquires -- well, Google her name, and you will see that the first link is to a bio where it says plainly what she's acquiring. Hell, the worst that can happen is that she sends you a form reject, right?)
To sum up, in the words of![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
jaylake: Don't be an idiot.
The interesting thing that happened to me, though, was this: people who I remembered from the panel, did exactly the above things, even after I'd said not to.
And not one person did tequila shots with me at the bar later, although I did have several delightful conversations over a vodka collins (with cherries and olives, thank you).
What are the things that make you cringe during a pitch session?
My answer was twofold:
1. When someone sits down and says, "I submitted something to you a few weeks ago and I want to talk about what you thought."
Jeez! There is pretty much no way that I am going to remember your submission, if I have even read it yet, which is, frankly, unlikely. I mean, that is just absurd. Not to mention that even though I personally tend to go through my submissions myself (even if/when I have someone act as "first reader" on some), lots of other editors do not.
As I have said before, more than once, we are not paid to read submissions. Assistants are paid to read an editor's submissions (at least partially, anyway) -- editors are paid to edit. Editors are paid to make their companies money. Okay, yes, it is totally more complicated than that, and I am not being fair or realistic -- but come on. It's neither fair nor realistic to expect (a) that I would have even read your submission yet, or (b) that I'd remember it.
2. When someone sits down and says, "I don't have anything to pitch to you -- I just wanted to meet you."
By doing this, that person is taking time away from someone who could be pitching to me. If you want to meet me, hook up with me at the bar like everyone else. We'll do tequila shots, I'll show you pictures of my cats, and by the end of the night (or drink), you will have one of my business cards, and an invitation to send your work to me if it's the sort of thing I acquire.
And if you don't know what I acquire, Google my name.
(To use an example that isn't me, if you buy Hilary Sares a drink, and she gives you a card, and you're not sure that what you write is what she acquires -- well, Google her name, and you will see that the first link is to a bio where it says plainly what she's acquiring. Hell, the worst that can happen is that she sends you a form reject, right?)
To sum up, in the words of
jaylake: Don't be an idiot.The interesting thing that happened to me, though, was this: people who I remembered from the panel, did exactly the above things, even after I'd said not to.
And not one person did tequila shots with me at the bar later, although I did have several delightful conversations over a vodka collins (with cherries and olives, thank you).