The difference between a skilled amateur, content to pursue their talent as a hobby, and a paid professional, who lives by selling their skill and passion, is the ability to make a successful pitch.  The pitch must be delivered confidently, smoothly, with grace and music.  

Everything rides on it, true, but a winning pitch must move the other person seemingly without sweat or effort.   A difficult transition to make without a mentor, from the schoolyard to the pros, fair enough, but one that can theoretically be made.  I say this as the croupier eyes me impassively, me and the stack of chips piled precariously on a single spin of the wheel.  

I drive from my mind the offer of the high-powered literary agent who, after howling over a complicated horror story only made funny by my telling, assured me she could sell it and get me money to write the book– if I could pitch it just like that.  Turns out it was like an offer to give me a half hour comedy special on TV because I’d been funny over dinner.  The gig could be mine, provided I crack the execs up with my pitch for the show. The meeting is set up, just go in there and do your stuff, you’ll be great.

“Let’s hear your pitch, we’ve heard good things about you,” says one of the execs, leaning forward with a wolfish smile.    

“Knock ’em dead,” I hear my friend’s good luck call as I left to tap dance at the meeting.   I’m thinking now that maybe I should have written some material for this meeting.  Failing that, it would be nice, I suppose, to just knock them dead, these hungry carnivores.

Let’s start small, I tell myself mercifully.  There’s a website I’ve just heard of that will pay a neat, symbolic sum, a week’s spending money, for short, tight pieces of human interest.  Pitch the guy, here’s his email address, tell him you know me.

A practice pitch, then, before I get back to work on my larger pitches, the one to the Department of Education, the one to the Childrens’ Hospitals, the one to recruit someone to deliver the winning pitch to the Department of Education and the Children’s Hospitals.  I can’t do it alone, after all, I’ve learned that much, and going forward I will need partners in any case.  A single smart well-spoken ally would be a game changer, someone excited about the idea of kids who are rarely given a chance getting a chance to be producers, artists, technicians, stars.

Dream on, baby, but first pitch this 1,000 word piece to get on the score board, something to build on.  A solid single, up the middle, maybe another base hit later in the game before the walk-offs start later in the season.

Hello.  I am an old friend of so and so who sent me to your excellent site which I browsed with great interest.  Here is a pitch for a piece I’d like to write for you:

Too abrupt?  Too blunt?  Too long?  Too short?  Wait, wait, it’s not done.

The View from My Father’s Death Bed  (why not start with that old chestnut?)

My father was smart, funny and brutal.  The brutality came from his upbringing.  My sister named him the D.U., the Dreaded Unit, and the name was fair.  He felt kind of flattered by it, often signed his notes “The D.U.”.  Our family dinner table was a war zone, each against all, which always struck me as a bit crazy.  My periodic attempts to broker peace deals were angrily rebuffed, I was a combatant, not a diplomat, after all.   The impasse continued for decades until I entered my father’s hospital room where he was quickly dying from undiagnosed liver cancer.   My need to forgive the poor devil met his need to tell me how sorry he was, to be forgiven.  The final conversation was a gift to us both.

 Fucking heartwarming, no?  Who could resist it?   Like that colorful slide show, seasoned with kids’ faces, hands and voices, touting all the great benefits children take away from being listened to carefully, encouraged, put in charge of the wild productions they dream up.  Pitch that shit to the right person, baby, they could not resist it!

Knock ’em dead, man!