A case for pitching yourself before you think you’re ready.

At the end of June, I started revising my 95,000-word first draft of a novel. About 5% of the way through, I learned about a program that pairs underrepresented writers with a working editor, and even though my novel was nowhere near ready, I knew I needed to apply. 

I approached the application questions with hesitance. Was I in over my head here? What’s the point of applying if my manuscript is currently a hot mess? Plus, based on previous works, the editor in my category won’t even like my story. 

But, sitting in Barnes & Noble, it was hard not to look around at all of the books that lined the shelves and wonder quite seriously: Why not my story?*

So I barreled ahead anyway, and while filling out the questions, something wonderful emerged. I brainstormed a more resonant title. A character’s missing plot line came to light. And most importantly? It inspired me to pose this question to myself: 

What might happen if I acted as if my manuscript would be chosen? 

Cue a massive rearrangement of priorities and a shuffling of resources. Now, 30% of the way through my revisions, I feel a new sense of invigoration and belief in my story. 

Whether or not I land a spot in the program doesn’t really matter. What does matter is the way it attached a deadline to a languishing project while stretching me outside of my comfort zone. 

When it comes to visibility, you might be tempted to wait to start pitching yourself “until you’re ready.”

Like me, your thoughts might be running in similar circles, but what might happen if you were to write a pitch for a dream opportunity? The biggest one you can think of? Your ‘pie in the sky’ visibility appearance.

Even if you never send it, I’m betting that something magical comes out of it anyway.

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*Curious about the novel’s premise? Here’s the working pitch.

After Lissa’s mother passes away unexpectedly from a heart attack, Lissa feels aimless — suspended in time between a future that no longer interests her and a past rife with unanswered questions. In the depths of her grief, she locates a loose seam in the fabric of time, one that allows her to travel back to see her mother for a sum total of one hour and sixteen minutes. She grasps onto this event with a fierce hold, using it as a tightrope to walk between her stagnant academic career and her lukewarm relationships.

Then, five years after her mother’s death, she discovers a box of mementos hidden behind the detritus of their ordinary lives. Inside she uncovers letters that weave a narrative about who her mother really was, from the true reason she fled Taiwan in the final years of martial law to the obstacles she faced while finding her footing in a foreign country as a new mother. What Lissa learns will fundamentally overwrite the memory she had of her mother and challenge what it means for her to make the most of the time she has left.