Elevator intro: not quite.
Whoever made up the term "struggling novelist" wasn't kidding. I thought all it took to write was a typewriter, keyboard or legal pad. The conference is today; my book was miraculously finished last Sunday at 1:05 p.m.
Monday morning, I learned I needed a synopsis. A synops-WHO?
After a flurry of email regarding the Godzilla synopsis problem, I managed to condense 500+ pages of a chick-lit first-draft into two reasonably informational pages, double-spaced. I'm prize-winning when it comes to blowing up a story and adding 100K extra words to it; in fact, that's easy, but whittling has never been my strong suit.
It's not that I have a vested interest in my words as they are, because I'm not that kind of writer. When criticized, I tend to view it as a learning experience and not as an assault on my character. I've been truly assaulted before, and I know the difference.
My problem yesterday was coming up with an "elevator introduction" – something of a couple minutes length to explain my novel to (hopefully) some publishing Joe I have curiously trapped in an elevator ride between the 2nd and 5th floors.
I'd heard the term bandied about before, but I thought it was a quaint little metaphor, not an actual spiel I'd have to have in order to launch an attack on said captive book publisher. I mean, really. Who hangs out in an elevator when there's a writing conference going on right downstairs?
Turns out, it's an actual thing one does.
Oh, the naivete of this poor little country bumpkin! This elevator intro job was to take my synopsis and turn it into three or four quick yet enthusiastic sentences. And don't let me forget that other magic ingredient, turning on the charm.
Both tasks are impossible for me. Let's see, I'm the kind who runs off at the keyboard. The reason I do that is because I've never been comfortable with talking to real people. My lack confidence might have been the result of my looks, my teeth, my size, my troubled upbringing, who knows? Writing has been the easy release, made more simple through my sheer love of words.
The other obstacle is my disdain of glad-handing. You can call it that, or brown-nosing, or greasing the palm. It's the main reason I'm leery of politicians and used car salesmen. I don't mind meeting people, but I'd make a lackadaisical salesperson. As a consumer, I buy what I want, and no amount of advertising, hype, or buzz can get me to change my mind. Besides, I want people to like me for me, not to like me for my charm.
Oh, well. After another flurry of email back and forth to my mentor and cheerleader, I think I've come up with something for my proposed trip in the elevator.
I just hope I remember my name today.