Last week, I found out about Galleycat’s Book Pitch Party about an hour before its deadline. I like Galleycat; I haven’t been able to keep up with it as much, lately, but when I can, I’m not sure there’s a more valuable resource for publishing.

The Pitch Party, the contest post announced, was held in the W Union Square’s Underbar, which is one of the swanky-hip sorts of rooms Manhattan is famous for. Reminded me a lot, in fact, of the Happy Ending Lounge, on Broome Street, which is where I read for The Nervous Breakdown.

We can argue the real validity of writers reading in a bar. Most, unfortunately, can’t. It’s not writers’ fault; writing is held as a solitary sort of profession, and even I get nervous enough my stage presence isn’t yet where I’d like it to be. Probably takes a lot more practice than I have, even though I stand before classrooms all the time. There’s something, too, about reading in a dim lounge; there are always clinks and murmurs, and it’s obvious in a way it never is when a band’s on.

When I heard it was in New York, and it was for pitches, I had to submit. So I went through my email and basically lifted my usual query for The Prodigal Hour and sent it in.

The following day, I was congratulated to be a finalist. I was going to pitch!

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