I've been such a bad Auntie, not posting anything for over a year.

I've found that nothing quite saps the energy and excitement of writing more than dealing with the publishing world.  When you're in the first throes of writing, you're encouraged by wonderful people, including authors, who say things like, "Write from the Heart," "Write your most inner longings, beliefs, and ideas," "Write from the deepest part of you, that reaches into the core of your soul."  That's all very schmoozy, but the hard, cold facts of the publishing world dictate that you must write exactly what they want, exactly the way they want it, and no one gives a crap about your soul.

I may not be completely fair, because I can't say I've run the gamut of submitting to all agents, editors, and publishing houses under the sun, but even the idea of sending off my material in an endless parade of e-mails to these people seems beneath me.  There, I've said it.

Now, there's no hope for me.  But somehow, I feel so much better.

There's also a wide, wonderful world of self-publishing out there.  I've heard many good things.  The old-timey publishers should be quaking, but I guess as long as they have their reliable novel-o'month authors, and the occasional celebrity expose, they feel pretty secure.

But frankly, I'm a bit of a scairdy cat to take the self-publishing plunge.  Maybe I'm just happier grousing and moaning.  Yay, me.