This past September, I drove into New York City to attend the NYC Pitch and Shop, an Algonquin Writer Conference. I needed some help with the art of pitching my novels, which I’d done before, but made me feel very nervous and tongue-tied because I’d never learned how to do it.

I arrived prepared with a novel pitch I’d written, guided by instructions sent to me via email from our instruc-tor and workshop director, Michael Neff. There were sixty participants, divided into four groups of fifteen. (You can check out the website at www.nycpitchconference.com).

The first day, my group seated ourselves in a half-circle around Michael and gave our novel pitch, one at a time. He critiqued each person, and took the time needed for each person, rather than allotting each of us a certain number of minutes. He gave his undivided attention, and was very good at recalling details. I think his manner could, at times, be interpreted as tough, but I appreciated his honest and helpful advice. I went to NYC to learn, not to be coddled or patronized. Michael was not unkind, but I believe he was focused on making each pitch the best it could be. My group has emailed since the conference, and there have been no complaints, only praise. Late that first afternoon, our day concluded with a panel discussion about publishing, but I remember very little about it—it seemed I’d heard the same discussion other times. I was tired and having trouble keeping my eyes open, so I left it a bit early.

The morning of day two, we circled our chairs around an editor who listened to each pitch and rather harshly commented on each one, although she did ask to see three participants’ excerpts. Then, in the afternoon, we each took a private turn with another editor. As a group, we waited in the hallway, practicing pitches with each other until a name was called. Normally, a pitch is not read from a piece of paper, but that is how we did it, seated and pitching to an editor, with Michael sitting to the side, giving moral support and bringing up pertinent points. I felt like he was my own personal cheerleader. We were pitching, yes, but still in teaching mode—a great way to build confidence.

Day three we had two private pitches (Michael was there too), one before and after lunch, so most of that day was spent in the hallway, becoming friends with group members, listening to each other pitch, and cheering each other on when a name was called. I was next to last every time, being a “W.” I’m thinking of changing my name.

The last day, Sunday, there was a final private pitch, and an afternoon wrap-up session with Michael. He explained that we’d hear from him within a week whether or not anyone was interested in our work. (My experience has been that, at pitch sessions, an editor or agent hands you a business card immediately, or says no, thanks). As new friends, my group exchanged goodbyes and good wishes. I left the conference, got into the car and headed home, driving all night.

Two days later I did get an email that one of the four editors wanted to see an excerpt from my novel. Of course I was thrilled about it, but skeptical, too, because, well, been there, done that. But whether or not anything comes of it, I did learn a skill from this conference that I expect will serve me well. When I think back to the first time I pitched (about two years ago), it gives me heartburn again.

Here’s the thing: an editor wants to buy a book that will sell. It’s business, it’s about money. Nothing personal, you know, though it feels very personal to me. Nonetheless, I’ll keep the faith that I have in my work and continue to put myself out there. I spent conference evenings sightseeing, then re-writing my pitch before falling into bed, so it was a very intense trip. It takes a great amount of thought and effort to write a good pitch, and to be prepared for questions an editor might ask. Michael did his best with us, so that we could do our best on our own.