KATE DYLAN

I SWEAR I ALMOST DIED

My (unabridged and slightly neurotic) PitchWars journey

I struggled with whether to share this piece because I know that with competitions like PitchWars, those of us lucky enough to get in are supposed to be grateful and humble and happy — and please trust me, I am all of these things. But I am also human, and PitchWars is a rollercoaster.

A rollercoaster I almost didn’t ride on account that though I’d read a million tweets and blogs about the competition, most told me the same thing: PitchWars is hard work but worth it. Which, for a slow writer like me, simply wasn’t enough information.

What I desperately wanted when I was deciding whether to enter was a blow by blow of what the experience was really like. Highs and lows. No rose-coloured glasses.

So that’s what this piece is.

It’s going to explore all the feelings I had during the process. The good, the bad, and the downright neurotic.

It will be long, so if you just want shorter answers to some lesser asked questions, check out this piece I did instead. Otherwise, this is my full, and unabridged PitchWars journey.

DISCLAIMER: no two PitchWars experiences are the same, especially in terms of mentee/mentor communications. So where appropriate, I’ll try to point out whether my experience differed from other mentees in the class, because like everything else in the writing world, YMMV.

P1 — Pre-submission: why I almost didn’t enter PitchWars
P2 — The reading window: why entering PitchWars took a bigger toll than I expected
P3 — The revision window: why revising a book will never not suck
P4 — The showcase: why this part is less fun than you think

P1 — PRE-SUBMISSION: WHY I ALMOST DIDN’T ENTER PITCHWARS

Well, for starters, I was pretty sure I’d missed the submission window.

See, I only finished my first draft of MINDWALKER in early September, and for some reason, I was convinced the submission window was in August (PitchWars was something I’d been vaguely aware of for years, but until 2019, I was unable to enter, so I never paid much attention to the details).

So, that was that. Decision out of my hands. Phew.

But then, twelve days before the submission window actually opened, I finally clicked through the hashtag (FOMO is a powerful thing), and discovered that no, I hadn’t missed it. I could still enter.

So naturally, I talked myself right out of it.

I mean, for starters, the competition calls for agent ready manuscripts, and mine was just a first draft. Nowhere near good enough. And twelve days? How was I supposed to write a query, and a synopsis, and polish that first chapter, and research all the mentors in just twelve days?

No way. It wasn’t possible.

Those of you paying attention might notice that the above is a fear-based reaction. Because if you want something, and you go for it, and you don’t get it… well, that hurts. But if you find a good enough reason not to do it in the first place, then hurrah! Pain averted!

AKA: a terrible reason not to enter PitchWars. 

Because, here’s the thing:

1. I already had a rough query and synopsis.

2. I edit and workshop my manuscripts as I go, so my first draft is more like most people’s fourth or fifth.

3. Twelve days is plenty long enough to read forty wish lists. Especially when your genre — YA sci-fi (don’t even get me started) — is something you can quickly scan for. 

So then, why was I still hesitating?

Well… because there was a second, more insidious reason for not wanting to enter, a small but persistent voice in my mind that kept asking: what if I actually get in?

And yes, I know that sounds both egotistical and ridiculous. I mean, not only was getting in incredibly unlikely, it was also the whole damn point.

But at the end of the day, entering PitchWars is a big commitment, and I had a lot of fears and misgivings that weren’t easily answered by the FAQs.

What if I end up hating my mentor?
What if I hate their feedback?
What if they make me re-write the whole thing?
What if I can’t do it in time?
What if I make the manuscript worse?
Would I then have to put that terrible, broken manuscript in the showcase?
If I get no requests during the showcase, does that mean I’ve burned ALL those agents?
What if my dream agents don’t participate?

Despite the flurry of blogs and tweets from previous mentees, I couldn’t find satisfactory answers to most of these questions, and that was a terrifying thing.

Especially when added to the fact that A) a lot of the authors who mentor PitchWars don’t have books out yet, so you can’t get a feel for their writing, and B) from everything I’d read, PitchWars is kind of one-sided in the selection stage. 

It’s not like querying agents, where before you accept an offer, you can ask them about their vision for your book. Here, a mentor either picks you, or they don’t, and you don’t get to know their feedback until after you’re committed*.

(*This actually turned out not to be wholly true — it was just the impression I got when researching. Again, you can find the answers to all these lesser-answered questions here.)

In the end, it was some advice from a friend in the industry coupled with the unlikelihood of getting in that convinced me to take the leap.

I still didn’t think my manuscript was up to the level it needed to be, but I told myself what a great motivator to just get the query/synopsis DONE. And a low risk way to test their effectiveness, too, without burning a single agent! 

So that became my goal for PitchWars: get the submission materials ready and good enough to get one mentor request. If I managed that, I’d be happy.

P2 — THE READING WINDOW: WHY ENTERING PITCHWARS TOOK A BIGGER TOLL THAN I EXPECTED 

The funny thing about entering competitions is: it doesn’t matter how much you tell yourself you don’t care about winning, you still end up wanting to win.

I’d entered PitchWars on a twelve-day whim, fully expecting nothing to come of it, and yet, the moment I hit ‘submit’ on my entry, I realised I’d be pretty crushed if I didn’t get a single request.

I started stalking the #PitchWars feed, and the #PWteasers feed.

Then I made a twitter list of the mentors I subbed to, so I could follow their tweets too (I have zero chill, guys. ZERO).

They’d pretty much all said they’d not be looking at their submissions until after the submission window closed, so I didn’t worry too much when no requests came through straight away. But no matter how many times my prospective mentors tweeted that they hadn’t yet finished reading, or hadn’t yet started requesting, by the end of that first weekend, I was convinced I wouldn’t get a single bite. 

I actually ended up getting two bites.

Two full MS requests. Both on the same day. I’d met my PitchWars goal and then some. Pretty early in the reading window, too. I was elated. 

For about three minutes.

And then something strange happened.

All those fears, all those reasons I almost didn’t enter in the first place suddenly hit me all at once.

I mean… yes, I’d done my research. Yes, I liked the vibe of the mentors I’d subbed to, and I’d read their sample critiques. But if I’m being completely honest, compatibility with their wish lists probably swayed my hand the most (YA sci-fi, remember? Mentors weren’t exactly professing their undying love for my genre). My goal was to get requests, after all. I never dreamed it would go any further.

Except, suddenly, further was a possibility.

And my brain does not do well with possibility.

Mentor 1 got off lightly: her request came first, and her email only asked me a few very easy to answer questions, so she got a nice and enthusiastic response, full of glee and exclamation marks.

Mentor 2, on the other hand, had the distinct misfortune of A) asking much more in depth questions, and B) requesting the manuscript a full twelve hours later — by which time, I was already spiralling.

(PW NOTE: request emails often come with questions but there is no standard or obligation here, so some mentors will just ask for the manuscript, some will ask a few general questions, and some might send an in-depth questionnaire. It varies depending on the mentor and what information they think they’ll need in order to make their decision. But lack of questions =/= disinterest, just as receiving a questionnaire =/= getting picked.)

So instead of an email full of glee and exclamation marks, mentor 2 got an essay about how much work I didn’t want to do.

The question I was trying to answer was: How open are you to revisions, including potential major ones?

What my email was trying to say: I am open to big changes, and I welcome your feedback, but I am not the kind of writer who can re-write an entire manuscript in three months.

That wasn’t laziness talking, by the way, it was experience.

I’d been through the editing process with two separate books by this point, so I knew exactly how much I was capable of achieving in that timeframe — and PitchWars isn’t like editor changes on books you’ve already sold.

It’s not three months to hand in your first round changes, it’s three months, to revise, revise again, and polish the manuscript so it’s agent ready (so developmental, line, and copyedits). All while also working on your query and pitch (around whatever else you have going on in life).

Now, I know for a fact there are writers who can do that and re-write 90%+ of their manuscript, but I am not one of them.

I write slow and considered. I need thinking time to come to terms with sweeping changes, and a proper line/copy edit can take me a month on its own.

Which is why the email I ended up sending sounded more like: OMG YOU ACTUALLY EXPECT ME TO CHANGE SOMETHING???

Okay, so maybe I’m exaggerating a little, but when I looked back on that email the next day I wanted to slap myself. It read so negative I honestly thought I’d talked myself out of any chance of being chosen. I assumed mentor 2 wouldn’t even bother reading the manuscript following that disaster. 

So that was the next few weeks of my PitchWars experience: radio silence, and thinking I’d blown it with at least one of my potential mentors, and alternating between relief (thank God, now I almost definitely won’t get chosen!) and sadness (damn it, I’m such a fool!)

During the wait, I almost withdrew my manuscript from the competition at least a hundred times. Yet another fear-based reaction. A way of preventing disappointment if I didn’t get in, or avoiding the work and the uncertainty if I did. Luckily, I had a group of 3-4 friends who I would periodically message to say: please talk me out of doing something daft, and I cannot recommend this strategy enough. Find someone who’ll cheerlead you, and talk you off the ledge.

And I’m so glad they did because remember that mentor I exploded all over? (HI KAT!) She eventually got back in touch to say that despite my e-meltdown, she was, in fact, reading and loving MINDWALKER, and though she didn’t think it required a full re-write at all, she did see some areas that could be improved. She also included a brief overview of what those were, then at the end of the email she asked: are these potentially things you’re willing to change? 

There it was.

The perfect out.

And yes, I did draft an email that said: I’m sorry; I don’t think our visions for this story align…

But then I sat on it. Because by now, I’m fully versed with my brain’s spectacular brand of stupidity, and years of having my work critiqued has taught me that my first instinct is always — always — to push back.

So I put her email away, and just… thought on it for a bit. Same way I do with all feedback. I give it time, and let the ideas percolate. Then I invited a friend round to talk through it as well. And (surprise surprise) by the end of the day, I realised that actually, the issues she’d brought up weren’t actually dealbreakers.

Were they things I’d meant to change anyway? Some were, some weren’t. But the important thing was, she’d hit on a couple of underlying issues I knew to be true.

So while I didn’t commit to changing everything, my response to her email included phrases like: definitely willing to explore this… not sure I’m ready to commit to this but would open to discussing further… I love that idea!

(PW NOTE: This is another part of the process that varies MASSIVELY so I want to emphasise that not every mentor will send potential mentees this kind of email – or they may not feel the need to follow up on every manuscript they are seriously considering. So again, lack of a follow up email =/= disinterest, just as receiving a follow up email =/= getting picked. It’s just a way for mentors to gather additional information IF they feel they need it.)

Anyway, my best advice if you do end up with additional communications is: be honest. 

When an email like this comes in it can be tempting to just say yes across the board in order to make your chances of getting picked higher, but remember, if you do get picked, you then have to action these things.

And speaking of actioning things…

P3 — THE REVISION WINDOW: WHY REVISING A BOOK WILL NEVER NOT SUCK

PitchWars is a very special brand of catch twenty-two. On the one hand, they ask for manuscripts that are agent ready. On the other, you don’t get to ‘win’ PitchWars unless your manuscript needs at least one or two decent sized changes. And winning = an agent showcase, so you really want to win. 

At least, you say you do.

But if we’re being honest — at least if I’m being honest — what you’re really hoping for is that your manuscript is so star-spangled awesome that a mentor picks it despite the fact that it’s too ready. Then they help you move a few commas around and bam, agents here you come. 

Needless to say… that’s probably not going to happen.

Once the mentee announcement went live and I found out I’d gotten in (YAY! But also F*&@!!!!), Kat’s full edit letter finally came through, and naturally, it was far more detailed than her email.

Now, I got really lucky. Kat’s British ass is in the same timezone as my British ass (What. Are. The. Odds???), so discussing changes was super easy, barely an inconvenience. 

I wrote the entire plot onto flash cards and worked out what was moving and where, then we jumped on a call so I could show her my handiwork and talk through problems. What I did agree with, what I didn’t. Possible solutions. Then we worked out a plan of action, and deadlines.

(PW NOTE: here seems a good spot to mention what a mentor’s responsibilities are, because again, experiences vary quite a bit. The PitchWars committee asks every mentor to provide their mentee with an edit letter and an additional read-through once the changes are made to ensure the manuscript is showcase ready (and address any final issues). They are also asked to help their mentees with their pitch and query. Anything above that – for example line edits or help writing a synopsis or becoming your best friend – is extra, and will depend entirely on your mentor’s availability and how your relationship evolves.)

In my case, Kat mentioned that if I managed to turn around my edit letter by Christmas, she’d have time to squeeze in a line edit. So obviously, that became my goal.

And all was going well.

It seemed like a perfect fit.

But here’s the thing. No plan survives contact with the enemy.

It doesn’t matter how much you like your mentor, or your notes, there will likely come a time during PitchWars when things go south. Maybe time will feel as though it’s mocking you (hello darkness), or maybe your manuscript will be in pieces (my old friend), maybe you’ll even find yourself wishing you’d never entered this stupid contest in the first place (I've come to talk with you again).

For me, this point came as I was trying to work through a change in the timeline of events, which was the one change I wasn’t 100% sure about during initial discussions. 

At the time, I thought my reluctance was due to not knowing how to make the change yet — which is not uncommon for me, so I never let that feeling stop me agreeing to try. But when I started actually trying to write the change… it just wouldn’t give. Three straight days I tried to figure it out, and still, nothing. It just felt wrong.

By this point, I’d been doing nothing but re-writing for a month (I took time off work to concentrate on PitchWars so I could meet that Christmas deadline) and the manuscript was a sea of red and broken transitions and I was about ready to hit undo on everything and walk away.

Which is why that mean little voice in my head started saying: so just… don’t change the timeline. Ignore the change, don’t tell your mentor, and if she asks about it later, tell her you decided not to do it. Simple.

AKA: the kind of shit I would never pull with an agent or editor.

But this was the point at which all those earlier fears, and misgivings, and paranoias came to a head. Because, I was right, wasn’t I? This was a bad idea. I was making the manuscript worse not better.

…OR (I know, can you believe there’s an or?) maybe, just maybe, I was over-reacting just a tiny bit (major shocker, right?).

Which is why instead of sulking, I grew up, and asked Kat for another chat so we could discuss why the change wasn’t working and figure out a new way forward.

Which we did.

Because edits rarely have a single answer. And when I laid out my reasons for why the change wasn’t working, Kat agreed that she could totally understand why. So instead of changing the timeline and breaking a bunch of interconnected emotional beats, we dug down to identify the problem the original change was trying to address in the first place, and then we figured out how to address that without affecting the rest.

It actually did go on to affect several other scenes (as most changes do) but in a way that instantly felt more natural than it had before, so I knew that this time, we had the change right.

For the record, getting things wrong is a part of the process. Edits aren’t a test — not for you, or your mentor, or your eventual agent and editor, and sometimes, the fix you’re sure is going to work falls flat and you need to look for another one. 

And sometimes, the fix you’re sure you nailed doesn’t work either. Which brings us to…

… second round edits.

As I mentioned above, depending on your manuscript, and mentor, and timeline, and workload, you may or may not do more than one edit round during the revision window, and Kat was kind enough to offer me a line edit so long as I got the main changes done by the holidays.

For me, this part was even scarier than the first, because A) I thought I nailed all my edits (I really am an arrogant fool), and B) time. 

I started working on the manuscript the week of the announcement, and handed in my first round edits on the 21st December. That’s a solid 6 weeks. And for those who like a nice visual, this is what that first round of edits looked like:

But now, it was the 1st Jan, I was back at work, had a manuscript with 400 in-line comments to address (thanks Kat! But also THANKS KAT), and I was also beginning to think about the submission package for the showcase. 

It was… a lot.

A lot is doable though. That’s something I’ve learned over and over again. I am good under deadline. I am good under pressure. I am whiny, sure (I’m always whiny, fyi, it’s kind of my brand), but I get the job done.

Getting this job done meant 16 hour days.

I did 3 additional full passes in the last month — plus two text-to-speech passes and a copyedit. I was still making big changes too: scenes were still being re-written, a whole chapter got squeezed, and one unfortunate character got yeeted from the manuscript (rest in pain you psycho asshole).

10 days out from deadline, I also sent the manuscript to 3 of the betas who’d originally read for me pre-PitchWars. I asked them 2 questions:

1. Is it better?

2. Is it ready?

The answer across the board was yes.

MINDWALKER was going to the showcase.

And yes, visual people, don’t worry, I have a picture of those second round edits for you.

P4 — THE SHOWCASE: WHY THIS PART IS LESS FUN THAN YOU THINK

Real talk: the PitchWars showcase is only fun if you’ve written your class’s hot book and get a ton of requests in a flurry. 

The anticipation leading up to it is fun — and the community our class built around it is still my favourite thing to have come out of the whole process. But, quite frankly, the actual showcase is horrible.

First you agonise over your pitch. Then you agonise over your first page. Then you agonise over the fact that OMG you only get 300 words total and how is this pitch 750 words on its own!!! (I’m kidding, my original pitch was 85 words, which might as well be 750 in showcase speak).

Then you finally get everything to fit only to realise that OMG AGENTS ARE GOING TO READ THIS and then you promptly die.

I was a complete mess the entire week leading up to the showcase. Then come YA day, I literally did not get anything else done AT ALL (so thank God I wasn’t working).

And as I said, being told you have requests is amazing, but knowing that some mentees were getting 1-2 requests an hour made it really hard to be happy with the slow trickle of requests I was getting (9 overall, in a class where the average was 17), and so all I ended up feeling was sad.

Obviously, I got over that, and the showcase (together with querying) did end up working for me. But at the time, it was a pretty draining experience. I’ll definitely be talking about this more as the 2020 showcase approaches, so keep an eye out for those posts.

So. I guess the ultimate question is: Would I do it all again?

Yes and no. 

Yes in that I have no regrets — not just because I ultimately got an agent out of the process, but because I walked away from it with a vastly superior book, and a large circle of writing buddies without whom, my query journey post-showcase would have been a disaster.

No because the pressure-cooker environment of PitchWars was very hard on my mental health and I, a very anxious person (can you tell?) would not put myself through it again.

But mostly, I think the answer is no because I had such an overwhelmingly positive experience with Kat that it would be very hard for a future mentor to replicate.

Anyway, at (GAH!) 3.6k words, this turned into it’s own little novel (I never could write a short story), but if you made it this far, I hope it’s helped.

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