I've just written an article that I'm very happy with.

It lambastes editors who work at big publishing houses, exactly the people who I expect to purchase my next great book.

How can I do this? Aren't I biting the hand that feeds me?

I am; so call me an animal.

It's a little outrageous, but it feels good.

This is what's great about being a writer and an author. You get to express yourself, and to tell the truth, to a whole lot of people, at once.

It is precisely this impulse, to let it flow, to let it go, that makes us who we are.

If we wanted to play corporate politics, we'd aspire to be editors, ourselves, at these huge word barns.

But we're better than that; we're pure, by gosh, and we should let everybody know!

Every writer would be better off if we stopped holding the traditional publishing world in such high regard. Frankly, they don't deserve it, any more.

There was a time when publishing was more about literature, about sharp and incisive journalism, about freedom of expression, but those days are passing away with the small publishing houses that kept such impulses alive.

Like the studio system in Hollywood, where actors were groomed over time and given long-term contracts, book authors used to be cultivated, for the long term. An investment was made, and I benefited from this, when I produced six books in five years for Prentice-Hall.

But now, these paternalistic palaces have been gutted, sold off, and otherwise replaced by mega-firms that line-up to get the next celebrity to write, with the help of a ghost, a diet, exercise, or cook book.

Happily, there are alternatives, like ezines, where you're probably reading this article.

In actuality, I don't have to be concerned that my next book editor is going to read this piece because they don't read anymore.

They shop.

So, I don't really have to worry, do I?