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Photo by Muhammad Saidul IslamToday’s guest post is by coach, author, and speaker Anne Marina Pellicciotto.
I’d labored over my memoir for more than a decade when, last January—after two rounds of beta reads, a professional developmental edit, and years of critique sessions with my beloved writing group—I finally completed my seventh (and final) draft. My book was done; it was time to put it out into the world.
I’d even gotten as far as to pitch my book at a couple virtual pitch-the-agent events, and received a single response of interest. What’s more, I had an inside connection with an author-heroine who’d graciously read my entire manuscript and liked it. She then offered to refer me to her agent—if I could please send her an itty bitty three-page summary.
Then I hit a wall.
I toiled for a month. I forced myself to remain at the desk for five straight days, yanking out gray hairs until I’d boiled-down my 350-page masterpiece to 10 ugly pages. Pure torture. Jane Friedman, publishing industry expert, agrees: “It’s probably the single most despised document you might be asked to prepare: the synopsis.”
Though, turns out, the resistance wasn’t to the writing assignment per se.
Reliving my dark, dramatic coming of age story all over again—in a kind of high-speed time-lapse—got my scoliosis spine all flared up. Knots in my lumbar and hips made it excruciating to walk, much less sit in my chair any longer.
So, for the sake of my health, I shelved it. That’s just what I told my writers group one recent Monday over Zoom, when they asked, out of the blue: “What’s happening with the memoir?”
I’d moved on to a new book project, I explained—one more present and prescient and rosy than the story that kept me trapped in my transgressive past.
“But, Anne,” they pushed back. “You’re sabotaging yourself. We’ve all been there.”
“Promise I’ll come back to it.” I sounded upbeat, though tears glossed my eyes as I stared back at them in their Zoom squares. I’d worked with these women for years, receiving their poignant and loving critiques. They helped me write the darn book. They wanted to see it out in the world. But something inside me was making sure it never got out there.
The next morning, when I showed up at my desk, dread infusing me, I caught a glimpse of My Big Beautiful Book Goals posted in neon on my office wall. Number 1 on the list of faded magic marker dreams: “To write for the creative, cathartic joy of it in hopes of touching and inspiring others.”
How could I touch or inspire anyone if the story remained trapped in computer files?
It was time to reach out to my therapist for an emergency session. She’d been with me through the protracted completion of the manuscript. The challenges were obviously not over.
“Of course not; you’re scared—not just of the rejection; what if it’s accepted?”
“I’ll have to keep reliving it—every pitch, every query—over and over. And a book tour?” I felt my chest tighten with panic at the thought.
“Who’s talking?” the therapist asked.
I understood what she was referring to. Based on our year together doing parts work—a therapeutic approach that recognizes we all have different inner selves with distinct voices and needs—she’d helped me address unresolved conflicts between my various parts, especially the ones wounded and unseen from childhood.
I shut my eyes and repeated my words: I’ll have to keep reliving it. The voice was teen me, the character who’d lived through the abuse and eventually escaped. The heroine of the story. She needed acknowledgment—she’d given me the story. She needed to feel safe. Could she trust me to protect her through the publishing process?
The writer me just wanted the book out in the world after decades of labor—completely understandable.
“What if they call me a liar—a drama queen? What if they criticize the writing—and me?”
It wasn’t safe to speak truth back then, the therapist reminded me. But I’m older and wiser now. That hindsight narrator—my true Self—the one who has painstakingly healed, in part through the writing—she could lead with curiosity and compassion. She could listen to the scared one when fears arise, reassure her that it’s safe now. This Self knows: birthing the book into the world won’t keep us trapped in the past—it will free us, all the parts unified.
With this new sense of clarity—with the triumvirate of Selves behind me—plus the nudge from my writing group—I felt ready to face the synopsis again.
As a creative writer, memoirist at that, it goes without saying: I am staunchly against employing AI to generate anything original. But a task like this, where analytical dispassion was needed—and, when it came to my delicate story, I had none—this felt like a job for Claude. So, with some trepidation, I began to test the waters.
I had various artifacts at my disposal: the horrible 10-page draft, some relevant excerpts I’d included in essays, a one-page agent pitch. All my own words, my own story—I just needed help seeing the shape of it. Within seconds, the bot spat out a terrible but intact 1500-word attempt. Everything was out of order. The bot had missed key beats, including the turning point death of my father. But the plot-driven just the facts, ma’am blueprint was a place to begin.
At the end of one long day at the desk, writer self focused and determined—character self allowing and curious—wise self-encouraging—I had taken the AI sow’s ear and spun it into a silk purse: an accurate and what seemed like a compelling synopsis ready to share with the writing group.
I was nervous, adrenaline coursing as I gazed back at the screen of friendly faces. I cleared my throat. Within a paragraph or two, as I read the summary aloud for the first time, I could hear the power in my voice. I registered more than mild surprise at how dramatic, how cohesive, how poignant this story sounded. In this compressed version of events—and perhaps after the backburner time away—it seemed like a story somewhat separate from me. In a positive—not dissociative way.
Excitement bubbled. The young one in me, hovering behind the scene, wasn’t ashamed, but the slightest bit proud, remembering: this is a heroine’s story with a happy ending. This was an important shift.
The group’s silence, at first, alarmed me. But it turned out they were concentrating. Like me, none of them had ever seen the story laid-out fully. They were taking it all in.
“Wow, Anne, great job,” one member eventually piped up.
Their feedback was poignant and encouraging. “You got it; you did it. Every woman has been through a version of this abuse. They need this story.”
Relief swirled with elation. Yes, there were edits to make, more trimming and nuance to be added. Most certainly, a long, laborious process of outreach stretched before me—one replete, no doubt, with rejection.
But there was momentum.
