Talent, Talent, Everywhere!

For anyone who wants to be a writer, consider a low-resdicency MA or MFA program. I started at Wilkes University not understanding the scope of what I'd learn with mentors and authors whose fame was not bragged about. Last Friday night, I had a Master's Degree bestowed on me by the University amidst such famous authors as Jeff Talarigo, author of The Pearl Diver and The Ginsing Hunter, both spectacular works,  Kaylie Jones, author of her new memoir, Lies My Mother Never Told Me, and my mentor, Sara Pritchard, author of Crackpots & Lately.

The photo above is of John Bowers, author of the new book, Love in Tennessee and brand new "tweeter". Take  look at their books and enjoy the website they all have! Tweet@JBowersAuthor
 More in a day or so!

Wow! What a Ride!

I'm back home in Iowa and ready to get back on the horse tomorrow! Short post today, but just a note to tell you all I had an awesome experience which I'll start sharing tomorrow! My boy and his wife are visiting for the next few days as they head to their next base in Alaska, so I need to devote a bit of time to them. But starting tomorrow evening, I'll walk you through the past week, it's ups and downs and the culmination of receiving my Masters in Creative Writing Degree.

Thanks to all who have been so supportive! I could feel your prayers! Oh and I LOVE my IPAD!!!! Having a ball with it!
Talk to you shortly!

News From Wilkes University!

Just a quick post to day to keep you up to date. First, to be amongst other writers is such a blessing! Everyone is chatting about their projects and the tough semester we just came out of. The support  here is incredible!

I was the first reader yesterday for our Master's Capstone! It was exciting to read a piece of the book and get such a great response from the audience. My whole cohort that read yesterday was outstanding! We enjoyed a program with "the new kids" last night then our cohort went for pizza, catching up on each other's lives.
Today we head back for more readings all day and one craft class on "Social Networking for the Writer". Should be fun! Tonight the mentors, all fabulous authors in their own right will be reading at Barnes and Noble. This is the part we all love! The days are long, but so fulfilling! Just to be amongst other writers that understand how tough the writing life can be is encouraging!

The photos are all from campus. Sara Pritchard, author of "Crackpots" is my mentor. We had the photo above taken after my reading. She's a peach and a very talented and caring friend!

Monday evening we get our manuscripts back from our professional readers with notes and comments! That's when the "fun" begins! I'll be in touch!

What to do with a Bidet

I find myself in some pretty exotic places. Kansas City, St Louis, Minneapolis. While I'm travelling I often come across things I've not quite had the pleasure of seeing before. Imagine my surprise to find a leg shaving device.  I think every hotel in America should have. They call it a bidet. (Really, I've seen them before.)

The bellman made a big deal of showing it to me. "Why there, Madam, is your private bidet!" As if I'd be inviting in a host of others to watch me while I use it. It made me wonder. Did others have a private bidet or did they have to share it with the room next door? Did they use it for shaving their legs like I did or did they do something much more ominous with it?

I was curious, so I asked the bellman. "Sir? Does every room have a bidet or must they share it.?" 

"Oh, no Madam. Only certain rooms have a bidet," he said shaking his head rapidly back and forth. For a moment I thought he was having a seizure and almost lurched at him.

"Certain rooms?" I asked inquizzitivly? I began to think that maybe they saw extra dirt on the back of my pants when I arrived. I twisted in front of the mirror inspecting my trousers. No dirt. A speck of a chocolate raisen, but no dirt.

"The special rooms, Madam," he said as though I had ridden the short bus with the tinted windows to the hotel. "For special people." He grinned widely and moved slowly toward the door.

I get out a lot, but I'm still scratching my head on this one. Did he know me as a child? He seemed to look at me the way my siblings do in that knowing fashion that shouts loudly...."You're adopted! You're special!" (You  know who you are:)


Is it just because I think outside of the box? Honestly, what use can two toilets in the same space really be? What,  are we taking our spouses in there with a glass of wine while one does number two then moves to the butt shower while the other one does their thing? Is that a romantic night out?

I just don't get it. So I used the ceramic dish for somthing quite appropriate. Shaving my legs. It had a little fountain that shot right up to the ceiling with faucets that showered me with both hot and cold water. It was a good use for something so silly. Don't judge me!

I'm headed to school tomorrow! Pray for me as this will be a tough week. Proudly and though God's grace I'll come home with a Master's Degree in Creative Writing. Blogging might be scarce as the days are long, but I'll see what I can do! Have a good week!

School is Right Around the Corner, Plus Flashback Tips!

Residency is only a few days away and I'm getting anxious to get out there and finish this part of the program. A lot of the people I started out with are taking another semester to finish their projects so they won't be at this residency. Several more are stopping at this point to get on with the lives they've put on hold for the last year-and-a-half. I've decided to move on to the completion of the MFA or Master's of Fine Arts. It is the terminal degree, in other words, for this subject, it's as far as one can go. It will take oe more year, but as fast as this past year has gone, I believe it's worth it. Michael and my family have been great encouragers and God's grace in my life has been something I can hardly understand.

So tonight, I'm sitting here goig over everything I need to take with me to make sure I'm ready. I can confess I'm a little bit scared, but then again that only drives me to my knees. I'm a whole lot grateful to know that for some unknown reason, I can do this! I'm a writer!

Now for work. Flashbacks are a tool writers use to show the reader a part of the past while telling a story in the present. You give the reader a sense that they are going back by using transistions, or signals, that they are where you, the writer, meant them to be. If they find the transistion jerky, it may stop the reader from continuing. I should know as I've made this mistake:) Learning to make smoothe transistions can propel the reader back to a time where the memory of the character is clear.

For instance, here's an excerpt from my book Tobique. Emily is the main character. John is her grandfather. I've italisized the flashback for effect.



The Tobique, too, appeared changed, its waters emptied of the shaven logs that once bumped, lurched and latched into diving pools for the adventurous children of Plaster Rock. Its flow shifted easily, as though unfettered and unhurried by the long gone, surging timber.


Groups of dandelion puffs floated above the water, bobbing across the water like parachutes, touching, rising, then sinking into the face of the slow-moving current. The gliding seeds united with various drifting debris in shallow pools along the shoreline. Standing above the red banks of the river, the tiny clouds of white reminded Emily of Reverend Pike’s mushroom clusters of saved souls.

She cocked her head to remember the strains and steady beat of clapping hands of those who stood on the river banks to sing hymns of praise as sinners were washed clean in the river.

A fish jumped, then splashed a sphere of reentrance, the movement sending a circle of water rippling toward shore. Emily imagined tiny fish along the river’s murky edge. She closed her eyes and felt the many summers of joy spent wading there while polliwogs flitted between her toes. Though the wind was gentle in its blowing, she huddled her arms close to her body and allowed a warm memory to cover her.



In late spring he always took her fishing. Trout. Downriver, she and her grandfather donned tall green rubber boots and waded into a shallow cutting of the river. The morning was crisp, the water cool through the rubber, chilling her feet like the water bottle her grandmother used to bring down a fever.


They’d stop to pull fiddleheads from the green clumps lazing along the banks of the Tobique, the scroll-like ferns punching from the soil. Emily filled her tiny bucket with the treat that went so well with fresh fish, then followed her grandfather to the edge of the river.


John tugged the handmade canoe to a felled log, securing it in the shade for seven-year-old Emily to play in while he fished. He rubbed his callous hand across the top of her head, shaking it back and forth as he cautioned her about respecting the Tobique. He shared stories of the near-misses of his own mistakes on the river, and of his baptism beneath the watery skin. He settled her in the boat and prepared his lure before pushing into the quick moving current.

Two Contests from Funds for Writers

This week is a bit crazy! I worked today, am off tomorrow to get packed and ready for my residency at Wilkes University. I have to take two copies of the final manuscript with me, as well as the other projects due. It's exciting and a bit scary all at once. The blg will be light for a few days, but I'll always find time to drop a note and let you all know how things are going. For now, don't forget to check out Funds for Writers where these next two challenging contests came from. Have a good night!


INTERNATIONAL THREE-DAY NOVEL CONTEST


http://www.3daynovel.com/about/?contest

---

$50 ENTRY FEE

Can you produce a masterwork of fiction in three short days? The

3-Day Novel Contest is your chance to find out. For more than 30

years, hundreds of writers step up to the challenge each Labour

Day weekend, fuelled by nothing but adrenaline and the desire for

spontaneous literary nirvana.



1st Prize: Publication*

2nd Prize: $500

3rd Prize: $100



*The first prize winner will be offered a publishing contract by

3-Day Books after the winner announcement in the January following

the contest. Once the contract is signed, the winning novel will be

edited, published and released by the next year's contest. 3-Day

Books are distributed by Arsenal Pulp Press. Paid registration must

be in the mail by the Friday before the contest (Sept. 3, 2010).



=====

HUNGER MOUNTAIN CREATIVE NONFICTION PRIZE


http://www.hungermtn.org/hunger-mountain-creative-nonfiction-prize/

---

$20 ENTRY FEE

One first place winner receives $1,000 and publication! Two

honorable mentions receive $100 each. Deadline September 10, 2010.

Submit one piece of creative nonfiction, not to exceed 10,000 words.

Writing must be original, written in English.

What a Weekend!

Just got home from a working weekend, but what a great time! First the Emerson Drive Concert on the most fantastic night I've seen in years, then Friday night a dinner with the 50 plus year graduates from Logan Chiropractic College. It was wonderful hearing how these doctors have done so much for so many people all of these years. Then last night I attended a formal private Chris Botti concert. He is a concert trumpetist who used to open for "Sting". The music was magical and the evening truly enchanting! Take a look at his website.
http://www.chrisbotti.com/

Hang in there with me. Tomorrow, I'll have a few new contests to share!

Friends and Family

I'm in St Louis. The campus I am on is so beauiful and full of surprises this weekend. We were treated to a private concert with the great country band, Emerson Drive, who wowed the crowd! After the concert we ate a six foot birthday cake celebrating Logan College of Chiropractic College's 75th Anniversary! Dr. George and Liz Goodman were the kind and generous host of this fabulous event. I was invited to a dinner tonight with graduates who had fifty or more years in chiropratic. It was an amazing time listening to the encouraging words of these warriors. Tomorrw night we get to attend a concert by Chris Botti, jazz trumpeter. It'll be a black tie affair wth some wonderful new friends.

But today, I learned the true measureof a family that loves each other. My whole life I have felt somewhat responsible for being the family "instigator". A middle child of eight kids, I was often the tattletale or the one that stirred the family trouble pot. I never felt as needed as I saw my oldest brother, Milton, being, as committed and faithful as my second oldest brother Kent, has always been, as adventurous as my oldest sister, Peggy is, as smart and gentle as my older sister, Sue, is, as quietly full of grace as my younger sister Beth is, as fun as my youngest brotherJ eff is or as tenderhearted as my youngest sister Tanya is. I always felt a bit left out, like I had to try so hard to make anyone notice me. Of course, my family didn't help that feeling by telling me I was adopted!

But last night, a package arrived with a gift for my graduation from all of them. It was a new Ipad! The gift was something I wanted so much, but I had no idea that they were going to give one to me. My husband had kept the secret, so the package was a complete surprise. As I tore the paper from the package, I felt like  a "special" little girl, a feeling I can never remember having as a child. As I held the computer in my hands, then read the hilarious note, I bowed my head and praised God for my siblings. I must have cried for a half an hour. I felt so unworthy and humble receiving such a wonderful gift from this precious group of extraordinary people.  I honestly cannot believe I am worthy of their love.

When I was a child I could never forsee the grace God would bestow on me, but now, on the eve of my graduation, here he is again, surrounding me with his love through my generous family. I shall never be able to explain to them the depth of their gesture. I feel so encouraged, so loved and I just wanted to take this moment to tell everyone!

What a great day! No work tonight as I'm still crying:)

Here's a Short Story Titled "Invisible"

INVISIBLE

Nobody saw her.


Midnight. She heard the struggle. A muffled scream. Someone gagging like hands were choking away life. A final gasp, then a body slumping to the ground. She didn’t move from beside the dumpster, instead burrowed deeper into the discarded plastic bags.

“Come on Billy. He’s dead.” Feet shuffling. New leather clapping on the alley pavement, tapping quickly toward the street.

She waited, her breath shallow. Silence.

She pulled herself from the trash pile and shuffled from behind the bin to the body.

Merely a boy. Brutally beaten. Shot six times. Barely recognizable. Pockets turned inside out as though the perpetrators were searching for something. Slumped against the dumpster, his head pushed forward to his chest. One hand flung back against the cement wall, a tattoo of a snake needled in his wrist. Still bleeding. She looked closer. Familiar.

Brrriiinnnggg! Brrriiinnnggg! Brrriiinnnggg! Brrriiinnnggg!

She craned her head around, eyeing the cell phone lying in the middle of the alley.

Six hours later she was on the street, the night behind her. Forgotten. She arrived at Benny’s Bakery and gathered the Pepsi he always had waiting for her outside. She waved at him through the window. He gave a nod.

She had a brace choking her chubby neck. Her legs were wide and covered with white pants that looked like someone had sprayed dirty snow over orange rinds. She limped along, one foot bound in a sneaker, the other covered only by a grey athletic sock. When she walked, she drug her left foot as though she were hobbled. She carried a Pepsi in her left hand and brought it to her lips, sucking in a tiny sip, pulling it from her face then pushing it back to her open mouth immediately for another draw. It was like watching a wind-up doll, walking, sipping, walking, sipping as though her arm had to pump the can to her face in unison with her leg.

When she stopped, she’d sniff the air and look around, her big nose bobbing up and down like she was tracking an escaped prisoner. Now and again, she’d lift up her sneaker and dig at dog poop that wedged itself in the one rubber sole. She’d pound her leg on the pavement, trying to free the last clump, then give up and limp on.

People raced by, heads down, never eye contact. Most afternoons she’d wait at the bus stop pretending she had somewhere to go, someone to see, something to do. When she was hungry, she’d dig in the trash cans in the subways, always full of discards. She only remembered ever being hungry once in her life. Before.

She’d been on the street for six years. She got in the car the day she buried them, but never drove home, leaving the car near the river. Empty. Nothing to go home for.

Kevin had been twelve. Jenny seven. Her husband Tom arrived home from work two hours past his normal time. Sweating. Cursing. Mad. His boss, Bill Jansen wanted to hire his son to take over the Sales Manager position, currently held by Tom. Tom was expected to train the punk, then work for him. There’d be a raise. He’d quit. Walked out, leaving Bill and his son open-jawed.

“You’re nothing !” the kid yelled at the back of Tom’s head. “You won’t get away with this!”

She’d gotten up in the middle of the night, unsettled. She’d gone to the driveway to get the purse she’d forgotten in the car. Sleeping pills.

The sound of glass spewing everywhere. Screams. Gunfire. She stood with her face pressed to the front window. Paralyzed. Two bodies dressed in dark clothes plummeted down the stairs and out the back door, she’d told the police. A sliver of light from a flashlight illuminated one of the men’s forearms. Tattoo of a snake. No faces. She pressed into the darkness of the front porch. Nobody saw her.

The bedrooms, splattered with her family’s blood. Pin dots of crimson decorating the daisies in her daughter’s room, the little girl left hugging her Barbie. Kevin, hiding in his closet, crouched, arms hugging his knees, head gone from his shoulders.

Her husband riddled with bullets, sprawled like a slaughtered deer, head flapping back on the bottom of the bed.

Pictures. Pictures. Flashbulbs. Yellow Tape. Lineups. Silence.

“Do you recognize anyone, Mrs. Slater? Were there any distinguishing marks?”

Silence, every day since.

Brrrriiinnnggg! Brrriiinnnggg!

The sound startled her. She slipped her hand into her torn pocket. She stared at the screen, its face lit with numbers. Dad. She punched at the buttons until she heard him on the other end.

“Is he dead?”

Silence.

“Billy? Is he dead?”

Silence.

“Who is this?”

Click.

She stared at the phone. Searing pain. The voice. She’d heard it at the funeral home. Bill Jansen. Paying his respects.

For six years she’d replayed that night in her head. Restlessness had saved her life. No clues. No suspects.

The tattoo. She forgotten the tattoo. Billy. He’d reached out to shake her hand at the funeral home, a sliver of a tattoo on his left forearm peeking from under a crisp white shirt. How had she missed that? She forgotten the tattoo.

It was close to midnight before the light bounced back and forth across the alleyway. Her shadow hugged the doorway, cloaked in dark. The flashlight passed without noticing. His back was facing the street when the baseball bat struck. Once. He slumped next to the dumpster. She pushed at him with a shoeless foot. He moaned. Rolled. She made sure he saw her before the next blow. A smile. He lifted his hand to shield his face. A snake tattooed on his forearm. Again. Again. Again. Again.

Nobody saw her.

Brrriiinnnggg! Brrriiinnnggg!

“Hello?”

“Hey, is Billy there?”

“I just found him in the alley beside Benny’s Bakery on 34th and 7th. His phone was laying beside him. He’s conscious, but maybe I should call the cops.”

“No—I—uh, I’m his father. There’s money in it if you wait with him. I’ll be right there.”

Twenty minutes later, a car door slams. Footsteps tapping the pavement toward the dumpster.

“Billy?”

A flashlight slaps the body. Billy’s crumpled face beaten beyond recognition. Arm thrown back against a pile of garbage bags. Tattoo of a snake on his forearm. Lifeless.

Whump.

First hit behind his knees. He crumples.

Whump.

A bone bursts through his skin. Blood spurting, then streaming a path to his feet. Eyes roll back in his head. Flutter close.

Whump. Whump. Whump.Whump.

Morning news. Two bodies found in an alley on 34th and 7th. Father and son. Beaten to death. No motive. No clues.

Pictures. Pictures. Flashbulbs. Yellow Tape. Lineups. Silence.

She shuffles to Benny’s Bakery. Seven-thirty a.m. She picks up a Pepsi he’s left outside for her. She waves. He nods.

She limps along, her Pepsi in her left hand, sucking in a tiny sip, pulling it from her face then pushing it back to her open mouth immediately for another draw. It’s like watching a wind-up doll, walking, sipping, walking, sipping as though her arm has to pump the can to her face in unison with her leg.

People race by, heads down, never eye contact.

Nobody sees her.

St Louis and a Writing Tip on Romance

I'm in St Louis, home of the big arch. No, I won't be near it, so you'll have to envision itor look it up on the web! I'm posting a few more pictures from Seneca Falls. Photos of a lovely winery where I had lunch. The vineyards were spectacular, something upstate New York is known for. Go visit. They have a wine trail, but more importantly is being able to enjoy the beauty God created there! Have fun!


I just finished reading Writers Digest, a great magazine filled with a million tips on writing different genres. This month they talked bout Romance Writing and the five characteristics of compatible mates in romantic fiction. I'll sre the brief version, then go buy the magazine! W need to support these craft magazines!

Here are some the the driving characteristics of romance.
          1. Happily Ever After- Conclude your writing with a hopeful outcome. Everybody believes in a fairy tale ending.
          2. Variety-Writing romance is not the same old story over and over. Mix the elements of craft and come up wth something fresh for the reader.
          3. Romantic Tension- Create a desire between the heronine and hero that can be felt by the reader.
          4. Moraioty eflective of the Majority- That means monogamous relationships, good citizens and supportive family values.

These are the keys to good romance writing!

It's A Wonderful Life!

I'm in Seneca Falls,  New York! The home of  Woman's Sufferage and the movie stage for "It's A Wonderful Life."  As a child I so remember Clarence, the angel, helping  out George Bailey, (Jimmy Stewart) through a tough time in his life.

Here in Seneca Falls, a visitor can walk across the bridge Clarence jumped from, visit Zuzu' s Coffee Shop,(owned by the woman who played the character of daughter, Zuzu) and enjoy the wonderful sculpture garden that runs along the beautiful Cayuga-Seneca Canal. New York Chiropractic College plays a wonderful part in this community,  hosting the Woman's Hall of Fame awards every year. I love this part of New York and it's location amidst the vineyards of upstate New York. A great place to visit!

As for our work today,  I found a website that may help you writers that enjoy screenplay or playwrite action. Try out http://www.script-o-rama.com/ . This site is a massive database of scripts for you to read, which we all know helps out writing! Enjoy!

A prompt and a post

I am headed for New York for the next couple of days and will post upon my arrival. Keep writing my friends! Here's a prompt for your thoughts!

"You swore to me that you'd never tell Richard. He knows. You're the only one I told, Rachel. Now......"

Finish the thought an let the story take you somewhere special. Write at least 1000 words. Then post it here just for fun!

Cincinnati, Friends and the Southern Style

I know it's been a week, but before we get down to work, I wanted to share the great weekend we had with our dear friends, Bruce & Bonnie. They recently moved to  Cincinnati and we were their first visitors. The neighborhood they live in is a wonderful blend of old and new. (Note the photos) Quaint restaurants, boutique shops and bridges that took you across the river from Covington, KY (which is really where they live) to downtown Cincinnati. Enjoy the photos!

We walked and walked through a wonderful Farmer's Market, through the Taste of Cincinnati, through lovely riverside parks and tree lined streets, across at least five bridges, around an outdoor mall, you name it, we walked it! My feet are still dangling stubs at the end of my legs. We had a ball! We even had a chance to visit their children and grandchildren, which was such a rich and wonderful experience. To see how these kids have grown into such fine young people was a true blessing! A great time was had by all! Plus, Bonnie & I once again, beat the boys at Sequence!

Now, for the work part, I found an editor who is looking for "works that represent the entire range of the Southern experience, including all races, genders, and views on life." She accepts fiction, nonfiction and creative non-fiction.

The reading period is from March 15-June 15, and August 15-December 15, so time is short. 90% of her writers are  new or emerging writers so this is a great opportunity for those of you who might write to the Southern way of life.

Contact Terry Kennedy at editor.terry@storysouth.com or http://www.storysouth.com/. Now go for it!

As you might have noticed, I took a couple of days off for Memorial Day weekend, something I haven't done for the last seven years as I am usually working. Michael & I headed to Cincinnati, Ohio to visit Bruce and Bonnie, our dear friends from Elkhart who just moved to Ohio. We had an absolute ball! Got to see B & B's children and grandchildren whom we haven't seen in a long time. It was such a blessing!

Then got the good news that our dear friends, again from Elkhart had a new grandson! So good news all weekend! I left on Tuesday for Los Angeles, and then flew today to Minneapolis and home tomorrow! Busy week!

I'm down to two more stories for the contest my writing buddy, Gray, got me in to! I say that with great admiration for my friend, whose work ethic in writing is something I hope to emulate! She's a worker! Anyway, we have been writing 2500 word stories every two weeks since March. We do it to gain points. The person with the most points wins in July! Gray is ahead, but I'm working on her:)

Now on to work!

I had a friend ask me the other day how I feel about "pitch" conferences. For those who have as little understanding as I did before attending a "pitch" conference, I'll give you the rundown. First, I did everything about this writing life.....backwards. I googled "writing retreats" and found Michael Neff and Algonkian Writer Retreat in Washington DC. It was Michael who puts on The New York Pitch and Shop Conference in New York o that's how I got t e pitch conference I went to.

Now most people that went o the 3 day event (in Manhattan no less) actually went there with a completed manuscript in hand. Not Ginger! I went with an idea of a book! Next here's what happened over the course three days.
1. First, they take only 60 people. They break them into four teams of fifteen.

2. They take these fifteen people into a room and give them the “do's and don’ts” of pitching, allowing each person to practice their pitch in front of the others. They are critiqued by everyone.

3.Then you huddle in the crowded hallway and rewrite your pitch.

4. We were clumped into a room together to face a real live editor. We each got to "pitch" our story to the editor in front of the whole group. The editor gave his or her response to the pitch and everyone consoled or rejoiced with you.

5. Then we got to go back to the dingy hotel and rewrite the pitch.

6. The next day we huddled in the hallway as they call us, one at a time, into a room to face the next publisher/editor/agent. You are all alone.

7.You give your best pitch. The person on the other end of the table is barely twelve and more intelligent that you thought when you first saw the smirk wipe across their face when you entered the room. I swear they smell fear like a dog.

8. I tried to make them believe in the story I should have actually written. You have only 2 minutes to sell your idea, then POOF! you are sent packing to the next agent/publisher/editor.

9. So it goes until your four or five chances are up!

I was lucky enough to have two of the five publishers I spoke with ask for three chapter and a synopsis to the story. Let me remind you that the story had not been written, nor has it yet been written. I wasted a wonderful opportunity, but I have now begun the story.
Moral to this story, be prepared. Don’t spend your hard earned money on a conference if you’ve nothing prepared to send out immediately.

When you send it, make sure it’s been edited and formatted to the industry standards. They can spot a “wanna-be writer” a mile away.

On the other hand, if you are like I am, you might enjoy the good kick you’ll get if you are not prepared to deal with this wonderfully harsh world. I met a lot of good people. I learned a lot of what goes into writing AND it didn’t scare me off! So with that, I’d say do one! I actually loved it and plan on doing another one soon!

Go to http://newyorkpitchconference.com/ for more information. Tell Michael Neff, Ginger sent you He's a good guy!