Last week I sat down to write about my Pitchwars experience.  I wrote a charming piece about astronauts and optimism, about the random moon rover luck of landing at the right place at the right time.  I had my pick of agents: everything was golden. 

This week I accidentally deleted my super happy fun Pitchwars post.

 And I fell into a pit of despair because writers are supposed to self-promote, and self-promotion means blogging and blogging means not deleting anything randomly because you’re ADHD and you can’t figure out how to work your own website. 

 I can’t blog, ergo; I’m not a real writer.  Fuck writing. 

But then I thought about it.  Maybe I meant to delete that previous post.  Maybe my subconscious was at work here.  And the longer I thought about it, the more I realized that my previous post had the ripe scent of inauthenticity.  

Don’t get me wrong— my editor Marty Mayberry, my agent Jim McCarthy, and Pitchwars contest master Brenda Drake are all wonderful people.  I owe them all a lot. But…

Pitchwars was not wonderful while I was in it.  Pitchwars was stressful. 

If you’ve found this blog, and you are actually reading it, you are probably ND, ADHD—whatever term you’ve chosen to describe the inner majesty and mystery that is the working of your brain.  

And because you are like me I promise never to lie to you about my difficulties. 

More to follow.


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