On the ANWA critique line, one gal, who is also gearing up to give a pitch this month, asked for any nightmare stories of pitches gone wrong. I was really surprised that no one seemed to have anything bad to say about any pitch session they'd ever been too. Just kept saying how nice and wonderful agents and editors were. At least until my friend Sarah M. Eden shared her story...
There was this one session...
I stepped into the small room and nervously eyed the agent. My first
reaction was pure shock--the guy was, quite possibly the most gorgeous
guy in all the world. But as I made my way to the chair I was supposed
to sit in, other things began striking me as odd. His skin was ice cold
and pale. His eyes were black as night, although if I had to guess I'd
say they were usually more golden. He reached his chair in record time,
which told me he was ridiculously fast. Although it was lunch time, he
didn't have any food around, so I guessed he probably didn't eat
I cleared my throat to make my pitch, but all I got out was, "I know
what you are."
"Say it," he said. "Say it. Out loud."
"Vampire," I whispered.
"No," he said. "An agent."
I gave him a slightly nervous, yet mesmerized look. "Same thing."
"Ask me the most basic question," he said. "What do agents eat?"
"Aspiring authors." I knew it was true.
He nodded, the look in his eyes at once tortured and desperately,
irrevocably in love. "Wannabe authors are like a drug to me."
...It was a little awkward.