I grew up with the notion that the novelist was a solitary sort, tucked away in a drafty garret, composing literature for yes, a decade or more.  Then, through a process never very clearly explained, this solitary creature would be FOUND.  A great editor would become friendly; publication would follow. And another iteration of the Great American Novel would be visited upon an adoring public.

Right …

The other day, I was looking for an article on podcasting.  I found the article, but it was slow to load, waiting for <<pop>> a window exhorting me to publish NOW.  For a mere $4,000, I could have that great editor…and publicity…and reviews.  NOW.  I closed the window.

DInner was near, and I was to be the cook.  What temperature to use for roasting vegetables?  Sure enough, Google provided several options.  And the first one said…hmmm, loading slowly…<pop> Publish your work NOW.  Different unusually discriminating small publisher.  For only …

Maybe that garret was a better way.