You’ve got to wonder what motivates this sad circus we call the “writers market”. The opportunities may be there, but the yellow brick road sure aint. That’s because those sick doormen (not sicker then me of course) known as literary agents keep the place all boarded up through Happy Hour. Who wants to be sober that long?

So let’s pretend (cuz Mr. J loves himself a good game of pretend) that you raised your manuscript into a hairy, thankless adult. It’s time to send it over the river and through the woods to Dusty Mcree, the book agency. Well clowns, keep in mind that your sheep is now officially touring the slaughterhouse. The wolves do so love to feed.

What really burns my pot roast about all this is that they tell you the potential in your pup, yet still give best in show to the chihuahua with a gimp knee. Rather then roll up their sleeves and sit a spell, it’s off to the races they go, leaving you to do the dance all over again. HaHAha. The whole thing is madness. Don’t you just love it?