On being a prostitute.

I prostituted myself out this weekend. It was great.

Sure, I didn't make much money (actually, I spent an ass load), but I looked good. I wore a dress for the  first time since 1982, pink fingernail polish for the first time since . . . ever, and spanx. That's right. Spanx. I couldn't breathe but I couldn't jiggle, either.

I attended a writer's conference and sold myself. I pretended to be a peppy, people-lovin' smart ass, afraid of nothin', struttin' my stuff like a sweet tiger. I drew people in with my charisma, hooked 'em on my charm, delighted them with stories of my genius writing. All the while wishing I had on a diaper because I was pretty sure I was going to loose it any second. I mean, I can be as confident as the next guy, but pitching my book to the powers-that-hold-my-financial-life-in-their-hands was straight up terrifying. Anyone looking closely could see my shirt move with the thump of my heart.

Having said that, I learned more in that three-day period than I have along this whole publishing journey. For one, I finally understand what it means to pitch to an agent or editor, what it takes to get them to like your book. The big secret? They have to like you first. Introverted writers need to become actors, channeling their inner DiNero or Pfieffer. The meek will not inherit this world.

Just so you know, I walked away with some flesh under my nails. Two acquisition editors and two agents asked me to send them my manuscript. Damn. I feel good. I watched the show and figured out how to emulate the best; coaching speakers for fifteen years didn't hurt, either. Now I can pitch like a pro.

A hundred strangers did see me in my pajamas, hair askew, this weekend, but that's a different story.