I walked out of the "pitching" room with soaking armpits concealed in a jacket. With the agent's business card in hand I exclaimed to writers conference staff members, "I did it. It went well!" I firmly believed that my manuscript, the uncensored spilling, was on its way. I realized two months after my pitch to a well-known agent that it didn't go as well as I thought it had.

During the pitch I hadn't realized the significance of the agent's questions: 1) Do you write alone or in a group?

"In a group," I replied, reading by his expression that I had answered correctly. He wanted to know whether I was a hermit or in a healthy writers group receiving constructive criticism.

2) How do you know that the story has ended?

"Because I can feel it!" I cried out. I realized my blunder after he sniggered. Somehow though, I was able to redeem myself by wringing myself inside out about the premise of the story and his ensuing questions. He seemed to have been moved. "Maybe it's a murder mystery," he commented, in a lighter tone. "Maybe."

Two months later he rejected the manuscript. I remembered how during his lecture before the pitch he urged writers to make sure they know the genre of their story before pitching. This can be tricky. My manuscript was mainstream fiction that he thought might be a murder mystery. As honest and forthright as I was during the pitch, I grappled with whether I pitched in one genre, and sent my manuscript in another thereby appearing misleading.

I think of my story's journey, of the truths I'm rooted in, of the darkness I've edged close to, of reaching for language, of the emptying of myself, of the hope and care of my craft. I could if I let myself be defeated, burn my words, warm myself with them. But I'm not going to. I'll face the reality of it and keep going. I can't help it.