Ever dreamed of being a journalist but unsure where to start in an age where anyone can publish, algorithms shape visibility, and AI can generate copy in seconds? The question now isn't just how to break in, but what journalism is, and what makes writing feel vital and true.
In a new series, Roe McDermott explores the human elements AI can't replicate: voice, craft, instinct, and the slow process of discovering what you think - qualities that still make writing matter.
In this instalment, Roe explores the fine art of pitching your writing to editors...
At some point in every writer's career, pitching begins to feel vaguely humiliating. You have done the thinking, you have the idea, you can already see the structure of the piece in your head, and yet you are required to compress all of that into a few paragraphs, send it into the void, and hope someone replies with something other than silence. It’s easy, in that moment, to treat pitching as admin: a necessary hurdle you rush through so you can get to the real work of writing.
But pitching is writing. And more than that, pitching is often where your voice first does its job.
Editors are not commissioning subjects in the abstract. They are commissioning ways of seeing. They are trying to assess not only whether a topic is timely or interesting, but how a particular writer will approach it - what they will notice, what they will connect it to, what questions they will ask that haven’t already been exhausted elsewhere. In an age where anyone can instantly generate a list of article ideas or summarise the discourse around a trend, the value of a pitch lies not in the information it contains, but in the context it creates.
Pitching is about showing how your voice creates meaning.
This is why the most important question underlying every pitch is not "What is this about?" but "Why you?" Editors want to understand where the idea is coming from, what intellectual or emotional framework is guiding it, and what kind of relationship the piece will build with the reader. A pitch that merely describes a topic leaves the editor doing too much imaginative labour; a strong pitch shows them how the article will think, and what voice will tell the story.
Writers are often advised to strip pitches of personality - to make them neutral, efficient, clean. To remove the "I," avoid subjectivity, and present the idea as though it exists independently of the person proposing it. But editors do not publish disembodied ideas. They publish writers. And the truth is that voice does not magically appear at the draft stage - it begins in the pitch itself.
Context is the work here. Context might come from formal expertise: academic training, years spent on a beat, professional specialism. It might come from lived experience, from contradiction, from two areas of your life colliding in a way that generates insight. It might come from long-standing obsession or unease. Whatever form it takes, your job in a pitch is to make that context visible - to demonstrate not just that you know about the subject, but that you understand where it sits culturally, emotionally, and politically.
Pitching is writing. And more than that, pitching is often where your voice first does its job.
This has become even more important in the age of A.I. Editors are increasingly inundated with pitches that are technically competent but indistinguishable from one another - they may be structurally sound and politely worded, but they're often strangely empty, lacking in specificity, personal viewpoint, personality, a unique perspective. Against that backdrop, what stands out to editors is not polish but specificity: the sense that a real human is behind the idea, bringing personality, context, opinion, perspective, and a unique angle that cannot be replicated by a machine trained to be generic.
To show what this looks like in practice, here is a real pitch I sent to an editor a couple of years ago, suitably enough, tackling a particular angle of the threat posed by Chat GPT. It isn’t perfect - no pitch ever is - but it hopefully demonstrates how voice, expertise, and angle can work together. The editor was someone I hadn’t worked with before so I spent time introducing myself, and the pitch doesn’t simply state what the article would be about; it shows how I would approach it, and why my perspective might add something distinctive to an already crowded conversation.
Subject: Pitch: ChatGPT and the future of love & relationships
Hi there, I hope you're well,
My name is Roe McDermott. I'm a Fulbright Scholar with an MA in Journalism and an MA in Sexuality Studies; I am also the sex and relationships columnist for The Irish Times, a columnist for Image.ie, and the film editor for Hot Press magazine.
I'd like to write a piece about OpenAI’s ChatGPT and the potential threats and challenges it poses to romantic and interpersonal relationships. I know that [publication name] has published several excellent pieces looking at the capabilities of ChatGPT and the threat it poses to jobs in journalism, academia, etc., but I think a particularly interesting angle is examining how people could use the app to craft dating profiles, apology messages, compliments and emotional responses - and how these possibilities could allow people to manipulate one another; prevent individuals from learning how to navigate difficult emotional experiences by relying on scripts; and sow distrust in relationships as people begin to wonder whether the adoring love note they received from their partner was written from the heart or from an app.
This piece is topical due to the recent release of ChatGPT, and I’m well placed to write about it as a relationships columnist and film editor who has seen our anxieties about technology and dating play out repeatedly in pop culture - and now in reality.
I’d like to open the piece with my own experience as an advice columnist being introduced to the app by my computer scientist partner, and our wildly different reactions. From there, I’d place my concerns within a broader cultural context of online dating, authenticity, catfishing, and our collective fears around digital intimacy.
I’d explore how the app responds to prompts such as:"Apologise to my girlfriend for not being more engaged when she discusses Roe v. Wade.""Write me a funny Tinder bio.""Give me a list of meaningful questions to ask on a date to make me seem emotionally invested."
These examples illustrate how AI can provide emotional scripts - and how that ease may undermine growth, accountability, and genuine connection.
I’d also situate the piece within our long-standing cultural suspicion of AI and romance, referencing films like Her and Operator and shows such as Black Mirror, all of which explore the danger of technology replacing intimacy rather than facilitating it.
To close, I’d ask the app itself to describe the threat it poses to relationships - which I’ve already done:
Roe: What threat do you potentially pose to love, relationships and dating?AI: The potential threat of Artificial Intelligence to love, relationships and dating lies in its ability to mimic human emotion and behaviour, creating unrealistic expectations for real-world connections. AI can create a false sense of security and familiarity in relationships, making it difficult to foster genuine, meaningful connections. Ultimately, AI may lead to a breakdown of trust and empathy, which are essential components of any successful relationship.
Finally, I’d conclude with the relationship contract my partner and I wrote together, explicitly agreeing never to pass off ChatGPT-generated dialogue as our own. We used the app to create the contract. It was very thorough.
I believe this piece could be thought-provoking, funny, illuminating and insightful, with broad appeal across technology, relationships and culture. I’d be very eager to get started and look forward to hearing from you.
All the best,
Roe McDermott
What this pitch does is make my voice legible before a single paragraph of the article has been written. It signals the registers the piece will move through: personal anecdote braided with cultural analysis; academic grounding paired with pop culture; humour sitting alongside unease. It gives the editor a clear indication of not only what the piece will cover, but how the piece will sound - not just the story, but the voice telling it.
That is ultimately what a strong pitch offers: voice, context and confidence. Not just that the idea is viable, but that the writer understands what they are doing with it. It reassures an editor that the piece will not simply repeat existing coverage, but deepen it, by adding perspective rather than volume.
Pitching is about showing how your voice creates meaning. It is about articulating the lens through which you are looking, and trusting that specificity is an asset rather than a liability. In an era where information is abundant and imitation is easy, context is what gives journalism weight. And context comes from writers who know not only what they want to say, but why they are the ones saying it.
Your pitch is where you tell an editor: This is what I want to say, and here’s why my voice is worth listening to.
Exercise: Writing the Pitch as Voice
Choose a familiar topic
Pick something already being widely covered - a news event, trend, film, or cultural moment.
Write the "why me" paragraph
In 4–5 sentences, explain why you are well placed to write this piece. Include your experience, interests, or personal stake - not credentials alone, but perspective.
Name the angle
Finish with one sentence beginning:"This piece would stand out because…"
If your pitch makes your way of seeing visible, you’re not just proposing an idea, you’re offering an editor a voice.
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