It’s the collaborator’s turn to be stuck in work hell, so I am doing the stuff she can’t. I’m working on the pitch.
On one hand: I hate pitches! Pitches are harder to write than dialogue or sex scenes. You have to cut, cut, cut, cut until you’re not sure if you’re even conveying anything meaningful or just forming sentences that are less intelligible than a handful of refrigerator magnets thrown onto the side of a moving tractor-trailer. I also can’t add my trademark humor much.
Like I said — I hate pitches!
On the other hand: Pitches are a challenge, so I must automatically love them CURSE YOU COMPETITIVE SELF.
Anyway, I’m done pitching for tonight. It sucks that it took two hours to write what amounts to six paragraphs. Someday I’ll be some sort of awesome super-writer and my farts will cause book contracts to flutter into being via some sort of bizarre abiogenesis. Until then, though…off to the salt mines I go.
- Strapped down
in my bed
of my head