 I met Mark Covington at Writer's Wednesday, a casual meeting for writers of all types, put together by the James River Writer's group and held every Wednesday in Richmond, VA. At the time, Mark had recently completed his novel Homemade Sin and it was picked up by a small publisher, and was working on 2012 Montezuma's Revenge. Since then, we've kept in touch, and updated each other on our progress as writers. I'm excited to invite Mark to the Underground for an interview to discuss his success story, his new book, and his writing methods. AB: You have quite a few titles under your belt at this time, but they are from different publishing companies. Tell me a little about your journey through the publishing industry. Mark: Hi Amy, thanks for inviting me to be interviewed. So far I have written 6 books: The Church of the Path of Least Resistence, Bullfish, Heavenly Pleasure, Homemade Sin, 2012 Montezuma's Revenge, and Khamel Towing (coming soon). I’ve also written a play, "Shakespeare in the Trailer Park." Church of the Path was my first book and there is an old saying,' toss your first into the trunk and come back in 10 years and re-write it' so I'm kind of holding Church of the Path in reserve, letting it age like a good Bordeaux. I did shop Bullfish around to agents and got requests for full reads from a few agents, the funniest response was "I love the story but I didn't like the way you told it." So I got sick of the agents and just published it myself. There are lots of pros and cons to doing that. For me it made me feel like an author, and once you see yourself as something you start becoming that, kind of a self-fulfilling prophesy. Heavenly Pleasure got picked up by a small commercial press, Aspen Mountain press, which is now defunct so I have my rights back on that one and I'm going to re-edit it and start shopping it around. Montezuma's Revenge was picked up by Solstice and sales are steady. Homemade Sin was picked up in March by Rebel Press in South Africa, and it is due out in December. I met an agent at the James River Writer's conference who took an interest in Khamel Towing, the one I'm writing now. I plan to get that to him in the Spring. Oh, yeah, I forgot my play, "Shakespeare in the Trailer Park" took me about 15 years to write and it opened in Philly last April to great reviews. It hits the stage in Richmond at the 200 seat Gottwald Theater this April, with Billy Christopher Maupin directing. AB: Which book has seen the most success? Did you see a difference in sales between different publishing companies? Mark: So far my current publisher, Solstice, is selling more books but my first publisher did mostly romances so they really weren't focused on my genre. I have great hopes for the new book, Homemade Sin. With that one I have a South African publisher that commands markets in the UK, Australia, South Africa and New Zealand and those folks read more and love a dry, cynical sense of humor. It seems like in the US, unless you have the term "glistening loins" somewhere in the book you won't sell many. AB: Your stories are comic, wild, and yet thoughtful. What do you do to balance comedy with insight? Mark: Thank you. I think there is a natural balance between comedy and insight, you just have to see it. I see everything as potentially funny and it is my job to point to it and laugh and show other folks. I was asked to leave a funeral once because I was 'being funny." Hey, I knew the dead guy and he would have loved the comments, oh well. The first time I was expelled from school was in 5th grade, our math teacher was also the girl's basketball coach and she "lingered" in the locker room during shower-time. One day we were doing fractions and she pointed to the board and said, "Mark, what is our common denominator?" I said, "We both like little girls." The principal stopped laughing long enough to give me three days. Anyway, the more you see the true nature of the universe the more you will find hilariously funny. Einstein had a great sense of humor, so did Churchill. Queen Victoria coined the phrase "we are not amused," so there you go.
 Overview: In this edgy, political thriller, it's a race against time as Matt Christenson desperately tries to expose a powerful Boston Mayor. When Claire McCallin, step-daughter of Mayor Jack McCallin, tells Boston Globe reporter Christenson a dark family secret, Matt takes Claire and her three year old daughter Lizzie into hiding. Will they gather the evidence they need before time runs out or disappear as others before them who have tried to bring the wealthy Mayor to justice? A page-turned that will keep you on the edge of your seat until the final twist.
Excerpt from Relativity
It was a quarter to ten when Jamie turned off her computer. She’d missed part of the morning at work and had to meet an early morning deadline. A few reporters still milled around the newsroom.
She was exhausted. And now, she had to figure out where she could go to be safe. If Kizer suspected her, so did McCallin. She didn’t want to be anyone’s next victim.
She took her cell phone out of her purse as she crossed the street. She hated going leaving work this late. In the small town of Kansas, the streets were safe, well not all the time, but more than Boston. She pushed the speed dial button for Amanda.
“Hey girl, mind if I crash at your place tonight?” Jamie listened as Amanda questioned her. “No, nothing wrong,” Jamie lied, “just need some girl time, that’s all."
She opted to walk up the stairs to the third floor of the public parking lot. If only for the guy she’d been seeing for four months, but had yet to tell her parents, she needed to lose a few pounds.
It took both hands to push open the heavy metal door. She reached into her purse and pulled out the ring of keys. Only a couple of cars were here. Everyone was home, tucked into bed or watching television. Lucky them.
“Hey.” Jamie heard, her stomach tightened. She looked around and spotted a man leaning against a concrete post close to her car. She hadn’t noticed him before. Trapped. Her heart started to race. Damnit, she knew better. Why hadn’t she asked someone to walk her to her car?
Son-of-a-bitch scumbag was going to try to rob her. No use trying to run as he was too close. He’d catch her before she got to the door. She had a surprise for him, however, inside her purse. Bring in on, asshole. Jamie picked up her pace and focused on her car. Casually, she patted the pocket on the side of her purse and felt the Smith and Wesson 38. The first few months she was here, she didn’t carry it with her. Who would want to hurt a girl from Kansas? Working at the Globe, however and reading the stories of innocent women who were raped and murdered everyday convinced her that her father was right. Every woman should protect themselves.
“Don’t you like men? I won't bite.”
She pointed her key chain at the door and unlocked the doors. She was almost there. Don’t look at him. Just get there and fucking jump inside and lock the doors. Her hands trembled.
He jumped in front of her, blocking the way. He was unkempt, slightly built and wearing gloves. Fuck. Don’t’ let him know you’re afraid. “What do you want?” Jamie glared at him as she thrust her hand into the side pocket of her purse.
He lunged at her, catching her arm with one hand. “No.” He shook his head. “No phones.” His pupils were large, dilated. He was a druggie.
She flailed both her arms. “Take your filthy hands off me fucking scum ball!”
He put the palms of his gloved hands up in front of his chest. “I just want to talk to you. That’s all.” His grin sickened her.
He was going to rape her. It was after ten, this was an industrial area. No one was here to help. “So talk.” Jamie put one hand on her hip. Mother Mary, full of Grace.
“Tell me where the McCallin girl is and we'll part friends.”
She met his glare. “McCallin girl? Who the hell is the McCallin girl? And how would I know?” Hazel eyes. Receding hair line. Fortiesh.
He took a few steps towards her. “I know you know.”
“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.” She hurrried to move past him, but he blocked her again. Pock mark above right eyebrow. 5’8” or maybe 9.
“You don’t understand, I’m not asking.” His front teeth were yellow; smelled like tobacco.
She took a few steps back and looked over his shoulder.
“No one’s going to help you. No one here but you and me fancy pants.”
“Look, I don’t know anything. Now, get out of my way.”
His beady eyes narrowed. “So, I take it, you’re not going to cooperate."
He had a look in his eyes that Jamie had seen on documentaries of serial killers.
Quickly, she thrust her hand into the side pocket and brought out the pistol. Her hands shook uncontrollably as she held the handle tightly and pointed it at him. “I don’t want to hurt . . .”
Everything happened so fast. When his fist hit her stomach, it knocked the wind out of her and the snub nosed gun flew out of her hand, skidding across the cement floor. She doubled over. “I can’t breathe,” Jamie said as a whisper.
He went behind her, put both hands on her back and pushed her towards her car. Pain ripped through her abdomen.
“Get down,” he ordered when they reached the passenger side.
“Down where?” her voice was strained.
He glanced down at the cement. "Down there, stupid."
She knelt down on her knees, her arm still wrapped around her midriff.
“Lay down on your back, stupid whore. I’d use your car, but you probably have another gun hidden in there.”
She winced as she slowly went down on her back. He was going to rape her. More than likely kill her. Why hadn’t she just shot him? Her father told her to shoot first, think later.
He straddled his legs across her s and sat down, putting his full weight on her abdomen.
Jamie turned her head to the side. “Oh God, please, it hurts.”
“Why is it none of you girls ever listen?” he asked. “All I wanted was just a little information.” He grabbed one of her hands. She fought in vain as he pinned one hand under his knee and then forced her other hand under his other knee.
Jamie looked up at him, raised her head a couple of inches off the cement and spit in his face.
He wiped the spit off angrily. “God damn, bitch!” He looked down at her with soulless eyes. “I was told to kill you if you talk or not, but before I do, we’re going to have a little fun.”
She was five or six feet away from the side of the car. If someone came, he’d cover her mouth and then she’d bite the shit out of his hand. But no one was going to come. Think, Jamie, Think. Our Father who aren’t in heaven hallowed be . . . stop it! Piss on him. There had to be a way. She rolled her head towards the car and saw something shiny underneath. The gun.
As he lifted himself up an inch or two to unbuckle his belt, she found the target. Swiftly, she thrust one leg up through his knees and into his scrotum. He let out a guttural cry, one hand went to his crouch. Slowly, he rolled to one side. "Oh God," he moaned.
His legs were still over hers. Jamie wiggled violently and turned on her side. Using her hands and elbows she pulled herself towards the car, his weight on her legs tripling the weight she had to pull. With each inch forward, she let out a cry of as the cement floor dug into her elbows and forearms. Get the gun. Just get the gun. Don’t think about what he’s . . .
“Nooo,” she screamed when he pulled her back across the cement by her ankles. “Son-of-a-bitch . . . let go!” Violently, she kicked her legs, up, out and back.
“Fuck!” He let go of her legs and they dropped to the floor.
With one huge lunge, she was at the side of the car, her hands frantically searched in opposite directions. God, please, please . . . she pleaded silently. Just when she felt the cole metal, he drug her back, the cement knawed at her stomach, chest and arms. His hands went under her shoulders. He flipped her over on her back, pulled his boot back and kicked her in the side.
Jamie put her hand on her side, “Oh God,” she said as she rolled back and forth.
He straddled his legs over her again and sat down. His breath was a mixture of whiskey and nicotine, the eyes of a madman. He put his hands on the back of her neck, tilted her head up and smashed it down into the cement. “It’s going to be fun to kill you bitch!” She felt dizzy, disoriented.
“Oh God, please,” Jamie pleaded, as she rolled her head back and forth, “just let me go. I won’t say anything.”
He back-handed her left cheek. “Shut up!”
He was right handed. Details didn’t matter now. She was going to die. Mom . . Dad . . .I love . . . tears of both anger and pain tore at her eyes.
Once again, he straddled her and sat down, crushing her with his weight. She fought with little strength as he placed her hands underneath his knees.
“Just get it over,” Jamie whimpered, “you son-of-a-bitch.”
He fumbled with his belt buckle and then wiggled his pants down to mid-thigh exposing an erect penis.
“My hands,” Jamie cried and tried to wiggle her hands free. “You’re hurting me.”
“Stay still then, bitch!”
Mascara burned her eyes, her hands were going numb. Think. Oh God, she couldn’t. She closed her eyes. What did they tell her in self-defense class? Damnit, Jamie, think. If it’s a rape, go with it. If he’s going to kill you, fight like hell!
“I’m into fat bitches.” He yanked her blouse up and unbuttoned her jeans. “Too bad you’re not going to live to tell what a great fuck I am.”
Do something! She drew in a breath and pressed her hips and buttocks into the cement as hard as she could.
“God damnit,” he said as he tried to wiggle her pants down, not realizing when he lifted up he’d taken some weight off one of her hands.
Her eyes were almost swollen shut; his were crazed. God help me, please. She drew in a breath, doubled up her fist and rammed it into his face.
"Shit!" The blow sent him backwards which released her other hand.
She shot her arm back over her head and shoved it underneath the car. Hurry, hurry, hurry . . .
She wrapped her hands around the handle a second before he grabbed her legs. “Damn you to hell!” Terrified, Jamie pushed the gun into his stomach and pulled the trigger three times.
It seemed their eyes were locked for longer than a couple of seconds, both seemed frozen in time. Blood spurted out his abdomen as he fell backwards in slow motion.
“Oh God, oh god, oh God,” she said as she scooted out from under his legs. When she reached the car, she leaned back into it and brought her knees up to her chest. Still gripping the gun tightly, she stared at him wide-eyed. He rolled slowly from one side to the other.
“Call someone,” he pleaded in a weak voice, “get help.”
Jamie put one hand on the side of the car and worked herself up to a standing position. Her legs felt like they were going to give out, so she held onto the side of the car for support as she made her way to the trunk. She spotted her purse and, as she made her way towards it, a lightening sharp pain shot through her abdomen. She grimaced as she sat down on the cement, reached inside her purse and found her phone. She laid the gun down, flipped open the phone and placed a shaky index finger on the number 9.
“Fucking bitch.” Jamie heard faintly.
She closed the phone, put it in her pocket, picked up the gun and slowly crawled back to the trunk. She brought the gun up to eye level before she cautiously peeked around the corner. He wasn’t moving.
“Fucking whore bitch,” he grimaced.
She leaned back against the trunk and took out her phone. She stared down at it, crying softly. When she heard him draw in the last breath, she felt relieved that the decision was made for her. She tilted her head back and looked up. “Why?” She moved her head slowly back and forth “Why?”
She had to get a grip. She took her phone out, opened it and scrolled down to Matt’s name. Between the tears that blurred her vision and trembling hands, it was difficult to see the letters. Sonone tru kill ne
what
help Deas.
It startled her when the phone rang.
“What the hell does deas mean?” Matt asked.
“Oh God, Matt,” Jamie said hysterical, her words running together. She leaned over and glanced at the dead man. Guy wanted to know where Claire was.” She talked so fast her words were slurred and ran together.
“Wait. Slow down.”
“Guy tried to kill me.”
“What? Where?”
“Parking lot.”
“Shit. Are you okay.”
“God, no, I’m not okay!” Jamie looked around.
“You got away though.”
“He’s five feet away from me,” Jamie drew in a panicked breath. “God! I’m a mess!”
“Five feet? I don’t under . . . “
“I KILLED him!” She put one hand on the car and stood up slowly.
“You’re not making any sense, Jamie, calm down and . . . ”
“God damnit, Matt listen to me! A guy came up to me in the parking lot. He asked me questions, then tried to rape me and I shot him.”
“Oh my God, Jamie. What did he . . . ”
“He wanted to know where Claire was and when I wouldn’t tell him, he tried to rape me, told me he was going to kill me and I . . .Oh God, I can’t think. I can’t fucking think!.” Her head throbbed where he’d slammed her into the cement, her side throbbed with pain.
“You need to get to the hospital?”
“I need to call the police.” Jamie jerked around quickly, her eyes darted around the garage. “Oh Jesus.” She whispered and dropped down to her knees. She felt the same terror as when he was on top of her. “I think someone else is here.”
“Get the hell out of there, Jamie! Now!”
 Please welcome Tom Kepler, author of The Stone Dragon, to the Underground. Tom is an avid writer, also penning a book of poetry and a YA novel, Love Ya Like a Sister. Tom is an educator by day and an avid blogger and writer. He practices consciousness-based writing and transcendental meditation. Below he offers insights in the world of young adult fantasy, self-publishing and promotion.
Katie: The world your novel inhabits in is very lush and inviting. Where do you draw your inspiration from when you are world building? Any advice for those wanting to improve their fantasy world building?
Tom: To be honest, I started out with a vague idea one Thanksgiving vacation. I was thinking that dragons were embodiments of the fabric of creation, and I was also thinking that gnomes had an undeserved reputation--pudgy, long beards, and those pointy hats. I wanted to write a more real story. Suddenly, I was seven thousand words into the novel, and the whole idea was just there. My advice is open the doors of possibility--you can always close them later.
Katie: Tell us more about Glimmer, the main character. Where did he originate from? What did you do to get into a young dream mage's head?
Tom: I have no idea where Glimmer came from. Honest! He has some aspects of my son, some aspects of me, but mostly, he's just himself. I'm also not sure how I came up with the idea of a dream mage. I think Glimmer is a kind of Everyman for me. He is brave yet vulnerable, insightful yet impulsive. He's a lot like all of us, if we're honest about it. As a career classroom teacher, I am surrounded by inspiration daily for the heroic task that we call "growing up."
Katie: One of my favorite characters is Cabbage-pants, the cabbage gnome. He is funny, wise and charming. How do you keep characters original when so many of the fantasy characters have been done before?
Tom: I had a very clear vision of Cabbage-pants from the start. I'm an avid gardener and find the garden to be a magical, spiritual place. I really wanted to create a sense of the gnomes being spiritual extensions of the plants. It helped, too, that he provided humor for the story.
Katie: Who are your contemporaries in literature? To which authors would you compare your work?
Tom: Well, I have to approach this with honesty about who inspired me for The Stone Dragon. Science fiction/fantasy writer Roger Zelazny was an incredible writer who didn't let the genre limit his style. He was a very creative stylist. Also, for this particular novel, William Faulkner poked me with a stick. I needed something to move me to take chances with the dream sequences, and Faulkner's style provided me with a place to start.
Katie: Tell us about your path to self-publishing. What made you decide on that route versus traipsing around to all the publishers in New York?
 Self-published novels are often wrought with sloppy editing, dry characters and clichéd plot lines. Tom Kelper’s The Stone Dragon luckily has none of these. Though lacking in page-turning conflict, I appreciated his poetic style and world-building depth. Set in a magical world, where dragons fly and gnomes supply a quality cup of tea, The Stone Dragon introduces us to Glimmer, the apprentice to Alma-Ata, a mage who brews more cider than spells. In the beginning Glimmer laments that he has “not a glimmer of magic,” hence his name. And, as in any great hero’s story, he longs to be more than an orphan, servant and all around disappointment. Then he sneaks a book on dream magic and everything changes. After reading the book, Glimmer dreams of a powerful dragon who seems more real than imagined. Before the animal can wreak havoc, Glimmer encases him in stone. Waking and disoriented, he comes to realize that he has imprisoned the dragon inside the stone of the inn where he resides. After a series of mental talks with the dragon, who answers in ways our young apprentice has trouble understanding, Glimmer goes on a quest with his friend the Cabbage gnome. He explores the countryside and comes across marauding thieves, healing sisters and a wise sage, all the while learning life lessons and trying to perfect the dream magic within him. Kelper is a poet and it shows through his eloquent language and beautiful descriptions. He also describes himself as a consciousness-based writer. Though I found his style though-provoking and insightful, the technique seems to overshadow the plot, which meandered. With no real antagonist to speak of, there wasn’t enough conflict to hold my attention. With Glimmer going in and out of dream, I found myself unsure of what reality was and what was in his head. That being said, I’d love to see Kelper’s sequel. With a little more practice under his belt, this author could turn into a real powerhouse. Overall, those interested in world-building fantasy and scaly, flying friends should give Kelper a try. As an ebook, the price is right. Want to buy it? Get it on Amazon
Barnes and NobleAlso, as a blogger, Kelper is making waves, winning the Versitile Blogger award twice in one week. Check out his blog here. If you enjoyed this post, you can subscribe to the Underground or follow us on Facebook and Twitter.
Do you like the new logo? So do we! The design was created by Lisa Patrick from BitWizards, and she was truly a joy to work with. She listened to our input in order to create a personalized icon that embodies the spirit of the website while at the same time being simple and easily recognizable. It was a wonderful experience to see our words turned into art. We at the Underground would recommend BitWizards to anyone looking for a professional way to represent their website or business. Happy holidays!
It’s over and we’ve all returned home to reality and our normal lives. After a day of brutal traveling and a decent night’s sleep, here are my lessons learned from the NYC Pitch Conference. This is the down and dirty from anyone thinking about attending this event. Was it worth it? That is a resounding yes, and here is why:
I think a trait shared by all aspiring writers is they labor alone in a vacuum, struggling for years in front of their keyboards, unsure if their work is any good. Is my story is marketable? What chance does it have of getting published? They may have never met another writer and their friends and loved ones, albeit supportive, often don’t truly understand. I can confidently say now that I am no longer in that vacuum. I met dozens of writers like me, who share my aspirations, frustrations, dreams, fears and struggles. Although we come from varied backgrounds, our stories and passions are similar. You will leave this conference knowing you are not alone.
What was this conference about? First, I’ll tell you what it’s not about. It’s not about your novel and how cool it is. It’s not about your creativity or how long you’ve struggled to be a writer. It’s about the cold and hard facts of selling ideas. It’s about setting a course to becoming a disciplined, professional writer. Read and heed, brothers and sisters! This is plain-language advice I wished I had before I showed up.
If you want to come to the New York Pitch Conference, be warned. It’s not for the thin skinned or faint of heart. Everything you think you know about writing, publishing, and your book will be challenged. The facilitators are professionals who’ve already met someone like you a thousand times. They know all the mistakes and want nothing more than to help you avoid them. They are on your side, but you will not be served by getting frustrated or angry when they tell you the ugly truth. Leave your ego at the door and be ready to shut up, sit down, listen and learn. They will start not necessarily with the quality of your pitch, but with the concept behind your book.
Nancy Johnston is the author of Disentangle: When You’ve Lost Yourself in Someone Else, a self-help book aimed towards people who easily become tangled up in relationships. Nancy is a professional counselor, with 35 years of experience in the world of dysfunctional relationships. Her publishing story, from inspiration to publication, is both unique and inspiring.
Disentangle emphasizes the need to face unhealthy delusions and set healthy boundaries. While Nancy’s advice is aimed towards romantic relationships, it could be applied to many situations. Her book reminds us that it is easy for to become entangled in many different aspects of our life, whether the entanglement involves romantic relationships, co-workers, family or addiction.
I arranged to meet Nancy in her office, just outside the historic town of Lexington, VA. Nancy’s office is orderly and peaceful. Her window looks into a patch of woods, where a small deer is grazing. Nancy tells me that she tries to be quiet so as not to scare the deer away, but this proves to be a difficult task. Every time she laughs, the deer looks up at us, and we sit in silence for a moment, hoping it won’t run off.
Nancy is full of energy and enthusiastic about explaining her book, her practice, and her passions. I came with a fixed set of questions, but the conversation flowed freely.
 PSYCHOLOGICAL BACKGROUND
Nancy’s career was always psychology oriented. She studied psychology at an undergraduate level at William and Mary, then went on to graduate school knowing that what she wanted to do was work directly with people. That dream has come true.
“Even after all these years I’m still really interested in psychology. Everybody’s got a different story, so actually that’s part of it: that I’m with people and their stories all day, all the time. Stories that are mysteries to us in some cases.”
After finishing graduate school, Nancy went into the field of juvenile corrections, and realized that a majority of the legal charges she encountered in her clients’ histories were drug or alcohol related. This led her to explore the field of addictions further. However, in the professional world at the time, “addictions were always a step child to mental health.” Over time, though, more people began working towards integrating the two concepts. “Until we can help a person stop their addictive behaviors I can’t psychologically see what else is going on with them. I don’t know what their sleep problems are about or what their mood shifts are about.”
“In the process of doing all that I got very personally and professionally interested in the family of the addict, which is the whole field of codependence: How does the family member or other friends play into addiction?How do we enable it and what do we get out of doing that? A lot of that happened in 1990 and there was really excellent work going on with adult children of alcoholics. The topic of codependence was just emerging, and there was a great book called Women Who Love Too Much by Robin Norwood that came out in the 80’s. People were really interested in these topics so I started running groups that worked with the issues of codependence.”
They say that home is where the heart is – and, of course, our hearts are always with our families. However, there’s a piece of our hearts that is always searching for those who share our same passions, those who will drive themselves to the brink seeking what may, or may not, be the impossible dream. This is what the Algonkian conference is all about – it is for those who refuse to give up on their dream.
There are four groups that are divided into approximately 20 people. Ann Garvin, the author of On Maggie’s Watch, is a vivacious, petite, curly haired group leader for AB and I. Ann is so engrossed with helping the l7 people who are in her group that she is more nervous than we are when we get our two minutes with each editor. She is not only a gifted writer, but passionate about helping other writers.
Ann and the other three leaders of the workshop spend hours on end helping us perfect our pitch to make sure it will be clear to the editors what we have written. Word count, genre, title and comparable works of fiction are all gone over so the editor can have a clear vision of what it is we write. These are worked on both in group session and individual sessions.
 The group eagerly awaits their turn to pitch Yesterday, we pitched one editor; today we pitched two. The pitch is only the beginning. The editors hear the pitch (roughly a 150 word overview of our novels) and then if they like it, they ask for the manuscript. If they like the novel, they try to convince the marketing department that the book they are sometimes putting their career on the line for will be well worth the advertising dollars spent. This is the beginning to yet another long wait.
 Katie in Times Square The Algonkian Pitch Conference has been one of the most rich and unique experiences of my life. Right now, I sit in an eclectic little Manhattan apartment. The walls are decorated with Bollywood posters and artistic sketches. The hallway smells like the most interesting mix aromas, something like a Middle Eastern market and a dumpster. Across the kitchen table from me sits A.B., a person I've only met two days ago, yet I feel like I've known for years. We're bearing our writer's souls, swapping frustrations, reading pitches. I'm awash with so much emotion I feel like a Lifetime TV movie. And it's oh so good.
Michael Neff, the organizer, ran the writer's group in which Brian and I were placed. Even though Michael denies it, he's the literary Simon Cowell. As a Cowell fan from the start, I like Michael's no frills, cut to the chase approach. He's taught me so much already and, though sometimes I feel battered by the time we're done, it was all worth it.
Sitting there stunned at the end of the day, I was reflecting on this experience and trying to compare it to something that would help people understand. Not to beat the American Idol horse, but the experience is a little like Hollywood hell week. There's no cameras or Prima Donnas, but there are wide eyed artists putting their best foot forward for good or ill. You forget to eat, you forget to pee. You leave exhausted with your head spinning. And, if you're willing to work hard on what advice you're given, you just might walk away victorious.
If I never land a book deal, I'll always look back at this experience with fondness. I've ventured out of my box, hailing a cab, riding the subway and maneuvering around pan handlers who want to exchange my dollars for bongo music. I've received invaluable feedback on my project. But, the best part of this whole thing is meeting the three great writers who've held my hand through this whole novel adventure. They're just as wonderful in person as they are online. A writer might get so lucky is to find one writing soul mate in her life. I've found three. Thanks to A.B., Brian and Kimberly for dragging me into this kicking and screaming. I'm so glad you did.
Today was the first day of the much-anticipated New York Pitch Conference. The purpose of the conference is to perfect your pitch: to condense your novel into a short description that is less than one minute long. Today, we worked on the pitch. Tomorrow, and every day after that, we will pitch to big-name publishers who are looking to publish. On the last day, we will regroup and see what needs improvement, and hopefully walk away with a few requests for our manuscript. We'll come out with a book deal, a reality check, or possibly both. Not surprisingly, I went in with a small case of the jitters.
But before I describe the day's events at the New York Pitch Conference, I should mention last night's big event- when all four of us met for the first time. If you're wondering how it went, see the happy faces below:  The first gathering of the Underground The conference began at 9:00 this morning, and after milling about with our fellow writers we were given name tags and herded into four different rooms to begin the pitch workshop. Kimberly and I were assigned to a group of seventeen writers, all writing contemporary fiction. Our workshop was led by Ann Garvin, a published novelist and Algonkian Conference alumni. Brian and Katie were put in the group led by Michael Neff, the conference coordinator. Their group consisted of mostly of science fiction and fantasy writers.
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