By Peter Rosch

“I’m not going,” I say. “Too much happening at home, and I can still get a bit of a refund.”

My wife’s eyes tell me otherwise. 

“Bullshit,” she says. “You are going. If you don’t, I’ll kill you.” 

While we have plenty going on at home, she knows it’s not the real reason I’m balking at heading to the airport. I’m scared. I’m uncertain. I’ve done hundreds of similar things in my life that terrified me before doing them, so why would I run away from this one? You’d think I’d have learned my lesson by now: it’s never as bad as it seems in the run-up to the event. Plus, it’s on what used to be my home turf, New York City. At a minimum, I convince myself it’s an opportunity to see friends I haven’t seen in ages. I can bail on the pitch event at any time. 

Like every other time I’ve considered running away from something I’ve committed to, I remind myself that I need to break it down into steps. Step one: get into the truck and drive to the airport. Step two: go through security. And so on. So, I leave, because while my wife isn’t actually going to kill me, I know she’s right. I’ve worked too hard on this manuscript to give up on it and myself now.

I’m not alone in dreading sharing the work I feel deserves to be read by the world. Pitching it in 90 seconds to as many agents and editors as I can in three hours adds a new twist that exaggerates the types of phony outcomes that my mind has created in the months-long run-up to attending the event. “They’re going to laugh at you,” from the film Carrie plays over and over in my head. 

Before I know it, I’m in NYC, and I’m meeting other authors who are there to do the same thing as I am. I’m learning so much from so many excellent speakers, authors, and agents who are delivering wisdom at panels. All the while, I’m still not sure I’ll hit the pitch event. “Maybe it’s best I take what I’m learning and try again next year,” I say to myself. 

In this moment, it feels like no one’s brain has ever worked harder to foil its own dream. Sure, it’s armed with countless rejections and the desperate silences that accompany querying a book through email. Sure, it’s well aware of the odds of getting a traditional publishing deal. I’m saying my brain isn’t dumb. For the most part, other than the first ten months of 2008*, my brain has done well by me and my body and my life. It has every right to tell me to tuck tail and head back home. Honest to God, in the final hour, I have to break it down into baby steps again. 

Step 1: Eat something. But not too much of any one thing. 

Step 2: Walk to the room.

Step 3: Remember your training. What, brain? This isn’t a galactic battle or something. 

Step 4: Get in line, and when it’s your turn, tell your story. 

I’m in the thick of it now. I’ve pitched maybe six times, and it’s going well. I’m feeling warm and fuzzy, even as my brain tries to convince me they are all dirty liars trying to make me feel good. At some point, for me anyway, the anxiety breaks into something more akin to “I no longer care.” It’s a defense mechanism, I’m betting. And I’m walking into my last pitch when I spot an editor whose work I admire but who isn’t on my list of “to sees” because they didn’t fit neatly into the little boxes my brain had created at 2 AM the night before. “Jess Verdi,” I hear myself say aloud. Brain is saying, “What the hell was that, dude?” But by now, I’m finally ignoring my brain and going on gut, energy, juju, and heart. Thank goodness, we have those at our disposal, too, right? Because without them, it would stay a manuscript rather than my debut. 

*Feel free to hit me up about those ten months anytime. Real horror for sure.