Day 220

How to pitch a story to a prospective publisher

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From Spark to Submission: Unearthing Your Story’s Soul & Crafting the Perfect Publisher Pitch

You did it. You poured your heart, soul, and countless hours onto the page. You wrestled with characters, built worlds, shaped narratives, and perhaps, finally, typed “The End.” That’s a monumental achievement in itself. But for many writers, the real work, or at least the most daunting, begins after the last word is written: the journey from manuscript to published book.

This journey often involves two critical questions:

1. What is your story really about?
2. How do you pitch it to a publisher (or agent)?

Let’s dive in.

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What is Your Story Really About? Beyond the Plot

This might seem like a simple question. “It’s about a wizard who goes on a quest!” or “It’s a memoir about overcoming a difficult childhood.” But a publisher (or agent) wants to know more than just the surface plot. They want to understand the heart, the hook, the unique selling proposition of your book.

Think of it as distilling your entire manuscript into a potent, irresistible essence.

Here’s how to dig deeper:

1. The Core Conflict & Stakes: What is the central problem your protagonist faces? What will they lose if they fail? What will they gain if they succeed? The higher the stakes, the more compelling the story.
   • Example: Instead of “A wizard goes on a quest,” try: “A reluctant wizard must retrieve a mythical artifact to prevent a shadow realm from consuming his world, even if it means confronting the darkness within himself.”
2. The “So What?” (Theme & Message): Beyond the events, what is your story saying? Is it about resilience, love, the corrupting nature of power, the complexities of family, the search for identity? This is the underlying universal truth that will resonate with readers long after they’ve turned the final page.
   • Ask yourself: What do I want readers to feel or think about after reading my book?
3. The Character’s Arc: How does your protagonist change or grow throughout the story? What emotional journey do they undertake? Readers connect with characters, and compelling character arcs are the backbone of great narratives.
4. The Unique Hook: What makes your story stand out from the thousands of others? Is it a fresh take on an old trope? A never-before-seen world? A voice unlike any other? A surprising twist? This is what will make an agent pause.
5. The “Elevator Pitch” (Logline): Can you summarize your entire book in 1-2 sentences? This is a crucial exercise. It forces you to identify the core concept, protagonist, conflict, and stakes. Practice saying it out loud. If it doesn’t immediately grab attention, refine it.
   • Template Idea: “When [inciting incident happens to protagonist], [protagonist] must [goal/quest] before [stakes/consequences].”

Why is this important for pitching? Because an agent or editor needs to quickly grasp what your book is, why it matters, and who it’s for. If you can articulate this clearly, you’re halfway there.

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Mastering the Publisher Pitch: Your Gateway Document (The Query Letter)

For fiction, and often for memoirs, the primary tool for pitching is the query letter. For non-fiction (like self-help, business, cookbooks), you’ll typically need a more extensive book proposal. Here, we’ll focus on the query letter, which serves as your book’s literary dating profile.

The Goal: To intrigue an agent (who will then pitch your book to publishers) or a publisher directly (if they accept unagented submissions) enough to request more of your manuscript.

Key Components of a Killer Query Letter:

1. Personalization (The Research is Key):
   • Address the agent by name: “Dear Ms. Smith” or “Dear Mr. Jones.” Never “To Whom It May Concern.”
   • State why you’re contacting them: Mention a specific book they represented that resonates with yours, an interview where they expressed interest in your genre, or a conference where you heard them speak. This shows you’ve done your homework and aren’t just spamming everyone.
2. The Hook (Your Logline in Action):
   • Start immediately with your compelling 1-2 sentence logline. This is your chance to grab their attention within the first few seconds. Make it punchy, intriguing, and hint at the core conflict.
3. The Brief Synopsis (2-3 paragraphs):
   • This is not a chapter-by-chapter breakdown. It’s a concise, engaging summary of your book’s main plot points, character arc, and central conflict.
   • Introduce your protagonist, their world, and the inciting incident.
   • Detail the main rising action and the core struggles.
   • Crucially, do NOT reveal the ending. End on a suspenseful note that makes them want to read more. What is the climax the protagonist must face? What’s at stake?
4. About the Author (The Credentials):
   • Keep this brief and relevant. Mention anything that lends credibility to your writing (previous publications, awards, relevant professional experience that informs the book).
   • If you have a significant author platform (large social media following, relevant professional network, speaking engagements), mention it, especially for non-fiction.
   • If you have no prior publications, that’s okay! Be honest and professional. Focus on your passion and the book itself.
5. Comparable Titles (The “Comps”):
   • Suggest 2-3 recently published books (within the last 3-5 years) that are similar to yours in genre, tone, or target audience.
   • DO NOT compare your book to bestsellers like “The next Harry Potter” or classics like “War and Peace.”
   • Choose books that agents sold successfully. This shows you understand the current market and where your book fits.
   • Example: “My novel will appeal to readers who enjoyed the intricate world-building of [Book A] combined with the emotional depth of [Book B].”
6. Word Count & Genre:
   • State your manuscript’s exact word count (e.g., “This standalone novel is complete at 85,000 words.”)
   • Clearly state its genre (e.g., “Young Adult Contemporary,” “Historical Fantasy,” “Literary Fiction”).
7. The Professional Close:
   • Thank them for their time and consideration.
   • Reiterate that you’ve attached/included the requested materials (e.g., “Per your submission guidelines, I have included the first ten pages of my manuscript below.”).
   • “Sincerely,” or “All best,” followed by your full name.
   • Include your contact information (email, phone).

Common Pitfalls to Avoid:

• Typos and Grammatical Errors: Proofread endlessly. Get others to proofread. This is your first impression.
• Being Overly Familiar or Demanding: Maintain a professional and courteous tone.
• Pitching an Unfinished Manuscript (for Fiction): Unless specifically requested, your fiction manuscript must be complete and polished before querying.
• Revealing the Entire Plot/Ending: You want to entice, not summarize everything.
• Too Long: A query letter should ideally be one page, 300-500 words maximum. Every word counts.
• Begging or Desperation: Confidence in your work, not desperation, is attractive.
• Not Following Guidelines: Every agent has specific submission guidelines (e.g., paste into email, attach as PDF, query form). Follow them exactly. Not doing so is an instant rejection.

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The Road Ahead

Getting published is a marathon, not a sprint. It requires patience, resilience, and a thick skin. Expect rejections – they are a universal part of the process. Use them as motivation to refine your pitch, improve your manuscript, and keep learning.

Your story deserves to be heard. By understanding its true essence and mastering the art of the pitch, you’re giving it the best possible chance to find its way from your heart to a reader’s hands.

Now, tell us: What’s the very core of your story? And what’s one thing you’re most nervous about when it comes to pitching? Share in the comments below!

Day 219

Do you have a compelling need to write?

…

Some people would like to write.

Some have a genuine writing talent.

Then there is the rest of us, those who need to write.

Morning, noon, night, very late at night, on scraps of paper, on cafe napkins, in notebooks, on note apps on the phone, there is this very strange compulsion to get words on paper.

I feel it, it’s like a bug.

It’s like being in the shower and an idea hits you, when you try to think of what is going to happen next and can’t. You’re sitting there, pen in hand, gingers hovering over the keyboard, waiting, waiting, for that inspiration, and there’s nothing.

Don’t you just hate it?

All the time in the world. The writing room is sitting there, waiting for you. The cat, or the dog, has settled down on the floor and is pretending to sleep, like they know you need this moment to get the next plot line.

And dammit, nothing comes. It’s a complete blank.

You’re thinking of that motorbike screaming up the road, or the car whose gearbox is going to explode if they don’t change into second or third, or the rubbish truck is collecting the rubbish, or two people are walking past your window, talking loudly about some obscure subject.

You strain to hear, and then think someone is rummaging up the other end of the house, and, easily distracted, go and find the cat has slunk away and is playing with your slippers.

Or the dog is tearing them apart.

Damn.

Then, finally giving up, go and have a shower, and under that soothing, water massaging head, the relaxation of the mind suddenly pops an idea into your head.

If only I had waterproof paper.

Day 219

Do you have a compelling need to write?

…

Some people would like to write.

Some have a genuine writing talent.

Then there is the rest of us, those who need to write.

Morning, noon, night, very late at night, on scraps of paper, on cafe napkins, in notebooks, on note apps on the phone, there is this very strange compulsion to get words on paper.

I feel it, it’s like a bug.

It’s like being in the shower and an idea hits you, when you try to think of what is going to happen next and can’t. You’re sitting there, pen in hand, gingers hovering over the keyboard, waiting, waiting, for that inspiration, and there’s nothing.

Don’t you just hate it?

All the time in the world. The writing room is sitting there, waiting for you. The cat, or the dog, has settled down on the floor and is pretending to sleep, like they know you need this moment to get the next plot line.

And dammit, nothing comes. It’s a complete blank.

You’re thinking of that motorbike screaming up the road, or the car whose gearbox is going to explode if they don’t change into second or third, or the rubbish truck is collecting the rubbish, or two people are walking past your window, talking loudly about some obscure subject.

You strain to hear, and then think someone is rummaging up the other end of the house, and, easily distracted, go and find the cat has slunk away and is playing with your slippers.

Or the dog is tearing them apart.

Damn.

Then, finally giving up, go and have a shower, and under that soothing, water massaging head, the relaxation of the mind suddenly pops an idea into your head.

If only I had waterproof paper.

Day 218

A book I started to write but have not finished

…

I get ideas all the time, and sometimes they spark a flurry of writing.

A few years back, I was reading about a man who had split from his wife over creative differences. She was the one who had created a business out of an idea, turned it into a raging success and a huge money spinner, but with the fame and the fortune, she changed, but he did not.

And it became a problem so huge that he had to leave. There was a kicker in the tale, that after he left, she failed to tell him he was the father of twins.

Then, some fifteen or so years later, she dies and leaves the whole business and children to him, an eventuality he learns when a solicitor finally tracks him down in a hotel bar (of all places).

And in my usual, hey, that’s a good idea, I started writing.

It had a feel-good feeling attached to it, and I actually wrote several chapters, mostly about learning about what had happened from the time he left until the time when her father, whom she had fought tooth and nail to keep the business away from him, had all but taken it off her.

Then there were the children, spoiled, neglected, and recalcitrant. Getting sent home from boarding school for endless refractions, and getting into trouble simply because of their high-profile mother.

But, like all stories that are written without a proper plan, they stagger along, peter out, get revived and then end up in a box with a dozen or so others under a label, I’ll be back one day.

But this one niggles at me more than the others, and recently, thinking that starting it from the moment after she died, I would chart it from the first moment she got sick until the day she died, and got most of that done.

That then prompted the idea of writing a third part, that after regaining the business and getting it back on her track, sorting the children out by having them have to do a rather selective rehabilitation, he investigates the death and finds out who killed her, if it was murder.

This part, of course, would have a plan.

As soon as I get the time.

Day 218

A book I started to write but have not finished

…

I get ideas all the time, and sometimes they spark a flurry of writing.

A few years back, I was reading about a man who had split from his wife over creative differences. She was the one who had created a business out of an idea, turned it into a raging success and a huge money spinner, but with the fame and the fortune, she changed, but he did not.

And it became a problem so huge that he had to leave. There was a kicker in the tale, that after he left, she failed to tell him he was the father of twins.

Then, some fifteen or so years later, she dies and leaves the whole business and children to him, an eventuality he learns when a solicitor finally tracks him down in a hotel bar (of all places).

And in my usual, hey, that’s a good idea, I started writing.

It had a feel-good feeling attached to it, and I actually wrote several chapters, mostly about learning about what had happened from the time he left until the time when her father, whom she had fought tooth and nail to keep the business away from him, had all but taken it off her.

Then there were the children, spoiled, neglected, and recalcitrant. Getting sent home from boarding school for endless refractions, and getting into trouble simply because of their high-profile mother.

But, like all stories that are written without a proper plan, they stagger along, peter out, get revived and then end up in a box with a dozen or so others under a label, I’ll be back one day.

But this one niggles at me more than the others, and recently, thinking that starting it from the moment after she died, I would chart it from the first moment she got sick until the day she died, and got most of that done.

That then prompted the idea of writing a third part, that after regaining the business and getting it back on her track, sorting the children out by having them have to do a rather selective rehabilitation, he investigates the death and finds out who killed her, if it was murder.

This part, of course, would have a plan.

As soon as I get the time.

Day 217

Writing exercise

“Everything that happened in that house was a catastrophe”

…

Sitting around the table in the lawyers’ conference room were seven very eager faces, and, at the other end, opposite Blanding, my parents’ lawyer.

It was time for the reading of the will.

The seven seated at the other end were, in age order, eldest to youngest: Jacob, John, Jesse, Julian, Judy, Jessica, and Jennifer.

I was named Ferdinand.  Yes, that apparently was a name, but I usually used my middle name of Aloysius, or more often than not, the short form, Al.

There was a reason why I was sitting away from the others.  Technically, I was not a brother, but the only child of my stepfather’s brother, adopted by him after my parents died a year after I was born.

It had remained a well-kept secret until the day my stepmother, who died a few hours earlier than my stepfather, was conscious long enough to tell the eldest son of my adoption.

From that moment, I became persona non grata with nearly all the other siblings. It went from thirty-five years of harmonious sibling rivalry to me instantly becoming an outcast.  I don’t think it was what the mother had intended, but then she hadn’t realised just how greedy and insecure her children were.

I had, though it had taken time.  The two eldest boys thought I was different, not just the fact that my name didn’t start with a j, but the fact that I had red hair and that I had slightly different characteristics.

While the parents were alive, no one really questioned it.  After they died and there was a fortune at stake, it came down to being one less to divvy up the pot of gold.

But here’s the thing.  None but one, Jennifer and I stayed to look after them in their home when neither could look after each other or themselves.  The others left home as soon as they could and only came back for handouts to save them from their stupidity.

For them, the memories of what happened in that house were a stark reminder of everything they should have become.  They had been given every opportunity, but none seemed to like the idea of having to work for it.

Jennifer and I both got the intended message and understood.  I remember the number of times the father had said, if only the others had been like Al.  He made a point of it.  The others blamed me when the father started rejecting their demands for assistance, saying that I had made their lives impossible.  Nothing in that house, as far as they were concerned, had led anywhere for any of them except to catastrophe.

In turn, I never understood them.  From a very young age, they all believed they would be looked after, that why they should not work or try to make their mark when, in the end, there would be a fortune waiting for each of them.

Or perhaps I did.  Their parents spoiled and indulged all of them.  Not me.  Perhaps that was the indication I should have seen that I was not really one of them.  The father never gave me anything, often telling me that he expected me to make something of myself, as his brother had.

I never understood what he had meant by that until the mother’s revelation.  Then everything made sense.

More than one he had said, privately to me, that I was not one of them, that I did not have to be like them, that they, meaning the eldest two boys, would never amount to anything.

He was right.

But it was his fault they turned out that way.  His and their mother.

Now, a greater catastrophe was likely to befall them if the father had carried out his threat to cut them all off.

I was there when he told them they had six months to turn their lives around, during which time they would not be getting their usual allowances.

As far as he was concerned, it was time for all of them to sort themselves out.  His ultimatum had been met with stunned silence and disbelief.  I don’t think any of them had considered the well might run dry.

The fact the parents died in an accident did raise a few questions in my mind, so soon after the ultimatum, and the thought, however unbelievable or insidious, was whether one of them, or all of them together, had ‘arranged’ for their deaths.

Jennifer was more inclined to believe they had.  None had a story that would stand deeper probing. Each was vouching for the others, alibis were shaky, and as far as she was concerned, the police had closed the case too quickly.  As far as they were concerned, it was an accident.

I looked at Blanding and caught his eye.  He had his inscrutable face on.  It was time to begin

…

“Right,” he said after clearing his throat.  “Shall we start?”

He looked around the table at all the expectant faces.  No one could tell whether he was about to deliver good news or bad.  Even I didn’t know.

All I had was a phone call from the lawyer’s office, a request to be there. The others tried to have me excluded, but Blanding would have none of it.  He simply told them that the reading could only progress if all eight of us attended, an explicit condition stipulated by both parents.

The room went silent.

“Now that the investigation into the untimely deaths of your parents has been concluded and a result of death by misadventure recorded, the will can now be read.  It doesn’t necessarily mean that any benefits will automatically be payable after this reading.  There are formalities, and these will take time.”

Eldest son:  “How much time?”

“As long as it takes.”  That was it.  No more.  Blanding took the will document out of the folder in front of him and removed the first page.  The good stuff presumably started on the next.

The eldest son was going to ask another question but then decided against it.  I got the impression he was kicked in the shin under the table.

Blanding continued.  “Your mother’s will has been read and wishes executed.  She died before your father, and her wish was for everything to go to her husband and several annuities for friends.  She never thought of her domestics as servants but friends.”

Eldest son:  “But she didn’t leave anything directly to any of us, not even the girls.”

“No.  Her intention was always to leave it to your father.  Had she, in fact, survived him, there was a small lump sum payment of approximately a thousand pounds each and the annuities.”

“What about the estate, the holiday houses, the apartments overseas?”

Yes, the eldest son had been doing his homework, listing all the places we went to, not realising that the property portfolio was largely smoke and mirrors.  I discovered the true nature of what they owned and what they rented, and it didn’t surprise me.

The father had been very clever to hide the fact that they were not as wealthy as most people believed, and having ready cash to give the children meant a gradual depletion of assets over time.

Being who they were didn’t mean they were filthy rich. The trick their father had told me once is to appear rich without anyone guessing what your true financial situation is.

Blanding put down the document and took off his glasses.  I thought he was going to massage his forehead like a person trying the assuage the pain of an oncoming headache.

Maybe he had one already.

He massaged the bridge of his nose. Maybe the glasses were new and weren’t sitting right.

Then he looked at Jacob.  “I’m sure you’ve been compiling a list of everything you believe should be in the estate.  Did you think to also compile a list of the sums of money you borrowed from your father?”

“Borrow?” Jacob’s expression changed.  “We did nothing of the sort.  He gave us…”

He stopped abruptly when he heard, rather than watched, a thick folder land on the desk with a thud, perhaps more for effect than emphasis.

“Every time your father loaned each of you money, you had to sign a document to say that at the end of a specific period, you would either repay the loan in full or start paying the interest.  I daresay you didn’t read the fine print or look at or listen to anything but simply thought your father would never expect anything in return.  So, back to my original question, did you compile a list of all your borrowings?”

“Of course, we didn’t.  Are you stupid?  The man is dead. There’s no one to pay it back to.”  John had the logic all worked out.

“Well, there’s the thing.  It became repayable when he died.  It’s stated very clearly in the documents, very legal documents, I might add.  But just for the sake of clarity, the aggregate sums borrowed by each child are: Jacob, 18 million, John, 9 million, Jesse, 6 million, Julian, 4 million, Judy, 15 million, Jessica, 7 million, Jennifer, zero, and Al, zero.  That’s close to 60 million pounds.  Where do you think that lot came from?”

The siblings were looking at each other but mistake at Jacob and Judy.  I thought I heard a muttered “What the hell did you do with 18 million, Jacob?”  If they asked me, if would tell them.  Gambling.

“The old man was loaded.  Inherited wealth, he said.”

“I’m sure he said a lot of things to which you chose not to hear.  Giving you all you asked for over the years cost a lot, so much so, he was forced to sell all of the properties, including, in the end, the manor house.  There wasn’t much in the rest, the paintings of forebears were worthless, the furniture and fittings all very old but not worth a fortune old. The manor house has been given to the new owner, who was gracious enough to allow your parents to remain in it, rented free, until they decided to move on.  It was always going to revert back to him.  So, scratch any property off your list of assets.”

“Cash, shares, bonds?”  The confidence in the tone before had gone as the realisation of what had happened sank in.

It would be long before the others turned on Jacob and Judy, even though all of them together caused the problem.

“You know the answer to that question, Jacob,” I said

He turned to me.  I could feel the hostility.  “How come you didn’t get anything.  Bet he knew you weren’t one of us and was never going to give you a penny.”

Jennifer rounded on him.  “Like me, he didn’t seek to burden your father because staying home and looking after him, we knew exactly what the financial situation was.  You all should be ashamed of yourselves.”

Jacob jumped to his feet.  “If that’s all?”

“There is the matter of repayment of the loans.”

Jacob laughed.  “Good luck with that old man.”  Then he left.  The others quickly followed him out the door.

Blanding sighed.  “Well, that went better than I thought it would.”

“Were you serious about the loans?” I asked.

“Your father was. We could take them all to court, but they don’t have anything, so it would be a meaningless exercise.  But at least they have no more opportunity to get anything more.  They have to make their own way now.  But, now for the rest of the will.”

“I thought all that was left was the three thousand odd pounds,” Jennifer said.

“After the sales of a few bongs we found in the bottom drawer of your father’s desk.  No, that’s what your father left you two.  He was very glad you stayed to help.  Both of them were.  It was always his intention to leave the manor house to you, and the proceeds from the sale of a half dozen paintings that used to hang in the Paris apartment, about 40 million pounds.  He set up trust funds for the two of you, so you have somewhere to live, and enough to keep you going.”

“And if the others find out?”

“They can contest it, even get a slice of the proceeds, but the estate has first lien on the money in repayment of their debts, and the proceeds would barely cover the repayments.  No.  There’s no point, and no legal firm would take the case.  Now go and enjoy it.” 

He put two sets of keys to the manor house on the table, the same two we’d given him when we arrived.

We shook his hand, and he left the room.  I may have been mistaken, but I think he had a smile on his face.  Jennifer was looking down the street, and I joined her.  Both of us saw the six other siblings exit onto the street, just as the heavens opened and dumped a heavy shower of rain on them.

“I think,” Jennifer said, “Mum and dad just got the last laugh.”

…

©   Charles Heath  2025