In one word, humbling.
I am 49 years old, and my first novel, a speculative thriller called The Algorithm Will See You Now, published on 3/2/2023. I started writing it when I was 43.
When I was 46, I ventured into the online writing world, mainly via Twitter. A social media newbie (I know, I know, how can this be? But my 20s were consumed by medical training and then my 30s by starting and raising a family, and I just never felt the need—or time—in my life for social media), I found the #WritingCommunity pleasantly welcoming.
In 2019, I applied to and was accepted into the Pitch Wars Mentoring program. It soon became apparent that there were very few of us over 40. And many of the brilliant young writers in the program were of an age that I could be, well, their mom. Which I sometimes didn’t figure out until after we’d followed each other on Twitter (I never could figure out the Discord server).
When many of these young, talented writers obtained literary agents and book deals after our Pitch Wars “showcase,” I felt such pride for them, like a virtual mom. I still enjoy cheering them on, as some are now on their third book deals since Pitch Wars. (So proud!)
I, however, did not get an agent, or a book deal, after Pitch Wars. And while, of course, there was disappointment, it was okay.
Because I had enough life experience to know that it wasn’t the end of my writing. It was just the end of one path. And while it is cliché, it’s true that when one door closes, another one opens, but sometimes it just takes a while to find it.
At times during this journey, I’ve been surprised at the brutal nature of the publishing business, where rejection is the norm, and merit isn’t always necessarily rewarded. I sometimes joke that the thick skin I had to develop to survive medical training in the dark ages (the 1990s and early 2000s) means that writing rejections can’t hurt me.
But that’s only partially true. Because the difference between my writing journey and my career in medicine is that the former has required embracing vulnerability, something the latter did its best to drill out of me.
At the first writing conference I attended, where I’d signed up for pitch sessions, in 2018, I almost left without pitching. Despite all my googling, I couldn’t figure out what exactly I was supposed to do in the pitch session. (This was before I, thankfully, made some writing friends during Pitch Wars and after).
I had written out and practiced my pitch—which was kind of like my query letter, but not exactly—which was the most I could figure out a pitch involved from my online research. But I didn’t know what would actually transpire in the pitch session. Did I just read it? Did I memorize it?
My type-A personality decided that memorizing it would be, of course, the better choice.
Then, I saw a sign for “pitch practice sessions” in a small room off a side hallway. I hesitantly stepped inside. A woman at an empty table waved me forward.
I explained that I had never done this before. She told me to go ahead and give her my pitch, so I recited the whole thing without stopping. From memory.
Afterward, she kindly told me she thought it was great and would want to read my book. But did I do it right? I wanted to ask. Fear of appearing foolish stopped me.
I later learned this is something called “impostor syndrome,” and it seems to only worsen for women as we get older.
I had about ten minutes until my pitch session and didn’t know if I could go through with it. Putting my creative work out there to a stranger who could either validate or reject it made me feel so vulnerable, it was a physical pain in my chest. I called my husband. Later he would tell me the call surprised him, after witnessing me over the past twenty years prep for and give countless academic presentations.
He gave me a pep talk. In the end, I made myself go to the pitch session because I didn’t want to disappoint him—nor “waste” the costs of the conference and the travel.
I recited my entire pitch without pausing to breathe, noting the agent’s facial expressions of impatience. At the end, the agent asked some questions and then told me I could go ahead and send my manuscript (which I think he only offered out of pity). There were still a few minutes remaining in the session.
And here’s where I think my life and career experience, and being in my 40s, did help. I used the last few minutes to ask him for feedback on my pitch. He didn’t mince words and explained that I should only start out with a few sentences to cover premise and character and then pause to let the agent ask questions. It should then be more of a back-and-forth for the rest of the pitch session time.
I was so grateful for this feedback and used it to make my subsequent pitch sessions less awkward. (Less of me reciting like a robot what was, yes, let’s admit it, essentially my query letter).
None of those pitch sessions landed me an agent. Nor the ones at the conference after that. Nor Pitch Wars. Nor cumulative years in the query trenches.
It took me a long time to accept that maybe, that door wasn’t going to open for me. At least, not yet. And you know what? That was okay. Because another door did open. And that led to publishing with a small press. And signing with them for my second book, which will be out later this year. Which will publish after I turn 50.
I can’t wait to keep writing and see what I might publish in my 60s, too. And if I should be so lucky, even beyond.
All while continuing to cheer on the young writers who have successfully—and impressively—navigated this so much earlier in their lives. I’m both proud and humbled to join your ranks as a published author. Now if someone would only explain Discord to me…
originally published 4/10/23 on One Writer’s Journey