I remember the moment I found out I wasn’t a good writer.

Like most introverted masochists, I’d always wanted to be able to say I’d written a novel. It couldn’t be that hard, right? People have been doing it for a few centuries now. Lots of people. Like childbirth. So one Halloween, I’d eaten the last of the good candy, turned out the porch light and signed up for NaNoWriMo. If you’re not sure what that is, click here.

Two months later, I’d written most of a novel. For the record, I did make the 50,000 word goal to “win,” but as I wrote, I figured out my book was going to need to be a tad longer. I tinkered with it for another six months or so and came across a tiny little contest called PitchWars. You may have heard of it.

As the contest burst into…