My First Ten-Minute Agent Pitch Revealed “Mommy Issues”
I recently attended a Writing Day Workshop event online. A fledgling writer, I was pitching my book to real, live, human literary agents for the first time. Allotted ten minutes per agent, I pitched what had consumed most of my discretionary time over the last year. I expected them to be smart. I expected them to be professional. What I did not expect was the surgical extraction of my book’s subtext from my pitch alone.
All of the agents were gracious, insightful, and curious—even if only to be polite. But they were practiced and precise in their interrogation. They knew how to get answers. As it turns out, they knew more about my book than I did. Embarrassing, I think, is the word I’m looking for.
I was dismantled quickly, caught off guard by questions about themes in my book that were invisible to me. One agent used a phrase I was not prepared for: feminist undertones. I know my book is carried by a strong female protagonist (Em), but I had not imagined “feminist” would be the first word I would hear. I had to ask myself:
“Did I unknowingly write a feminist sci-fi novel?”
I was confident that Em was modeled in some ways after the many strong women in my life—wife, daughter, stepmother, and more. So if people read Em’s fortitude, ingenuity, and wit as feminist—that genuinely gives me joy. But the agents’ interpretations quickly dispelled any belief that I was the foremost authority on my writing. I had learned something new about my book, but also realized the reader decides what my book is about. I took the note and trudged on.
Though fast, akin to speed-dating, my ten-minute pitches produced multiple “meta moments.” Not all were “what-makes-you-qualified-to-write-about-feminism” confidence-destroying gut punches. Some were “duh-why-didn’t-I-think-of-that” moments. Others were “I-had-no-idea-the-industry-worked-that-way” moments.
The most surprising revelation, however, came when an agent casually asked, “Why did you choose to write about reproductive horror through a voice-driven female protagonist?” They clearly picked up the same scent as the earlier agent. Having not yet formulated a coherent response to this line of questioning, I answered instinctively:
“Mommy issues.”
The joke landed—and it felt right. But I wasn’t sure whether I had answered honestly. I hadn’t set out to write a book that had feminist undertones, or reproductive horror, or even one that was intensely personal. I chose the themes and my female character because they served the story—or so I thought.
Later, when I returned to my pages looking for evidence of my response, I would learn that my choices served my subconscious need to talk about them. There they were—abandonment, resentment, and guilt—woven into the book’s matriarchal spine. But they had been invisible to me. “Mommy issues” was an answer waiting for the right question. Without that agent and that discussion, this aspect of my work might still be invisible to me.
As if having mommy issues isn’t enough, now I’m left to wonder, “What other answers are waiting for the right questions?”
