On the top shelf of my closet, in two vacuum bags, are a pair of novels I wrote a while back. Actually, they are one book, but at a total of a quarter million words I had to do it in two parts. Only Stephen King can get away with a thousand pager nowadays.

As always, the main problem lies with the “We accept submissions from agented authors only/We represent clones of successful authors only” hell. Oh, the agencies don’t say their part exactly that way, but I think “We want original work reminiscent of a corporate blow-boy sort of author”–which appears in the soul of their text–says all you need to know. Anyway, the vacuum bags make for comfortable cat beds. So all is not lost.