findingphilblog

When you live in a house with two artists, crazy ideas routinely unfurl. That’s when one of us turns to the other and shrugs: “You can’t wrestle if you don’t weigh in.”

Well, after almost 13 years of research and five years of writing, it was time. Heart in my throat and Hamilton‘s “My Shot” roaring in my ears, I took Grandpa’s story to the annual Pennwriters convention. It was, in all places, Pittsburgh. On the same weekend I’d already booked an Italian genealogy course at Heinz History Center. A course led by — gasp — a man named Rich Venezia (who was wonderful and, sadly, no relation.) Surely, fate was on my side.

And it seemed, for a moment, like it was. I pitched two agents. Both enthusiastically asked for pages. A lot of them. This was it, I thought. All those years of work, and I’ll bang it out the same way I did Jeopardy! — nailing the audition on the very first try.

To quote the marvelous Julia Sweeney — God said Ha.

A pitch, a swing and a miss. The first agent said no thanks. The concept was fascinating. There was the little problem, however, of not having developed it well enough. She was sweet and wonderful and absolutely professional in every way. She invited me to re-pitch if I reworked it. This is more than generous.

The two-page critique at the conference, and then a critique group a month later all coalesced to a single truth: I was not as ready as I thought. I’m not going to reach out to the second agent until I am.

Oddly enough, it was Jillian who convinced me not to. When I told her things hadn’t worked out, I asked her “What do you think, baby? Should mommy send her story, or wait and make it better.”

With guileless eyes, she stared into my soul and said “make it better, Mommy.” Who can argue with that? Plus, if this adventure taught me anything, it’s that slowing down can sometimes make everything move faster a bit later. So, now it’s time to take my time — something that is never easy.

Speaking of easy, Jason likes to remind me of another truth. If it was easy, everyone would do it.

So instead of reaching Everest, I’ve tumbled all the way back to the Kathmandu airport, pack in hand, wondering if I’m nuts to even try such a thing.

So, I do what I always do. I buy more books.

Fix Your Story. The 2019 Writer’s Market. Pull out the books on self-editing I borrowed from Valerie years ago. Because I made the cardinal mistake many new, aspiring authors do — thinking that a great true story and mastery of other styles translates to literary success. It very, very rarely does. Like letting go of all my journalism hang-ups so I could learn to write for business, I’m reaching for a new editorial horizon. 

Sometimes, the questions seem insurmountable. I could take the story this way. Or that. What is right? No one can tell me. It is trial and error upon error upon error. It is not for the faint of heart.

But my heart’s pretty good. It stands in the place of Phil’s broken one.

At the very least, I’m always telling Jillian it’s the effort that matters. In the words of one her favorite songs (from the movie Trolls) “if you knock/knock/me over/I will get back up again.” What’s true for a five-year-old is surely true for her 41-year-old mom, right?