Did you ever have that dream about publishers? You know the one where you’ve called them together in your posh New York City office to discuss the millions of dollars they want to give you to aggregate your insanity into a multi-book deal.

“No, nonono. Look, I realize Penguin has been dying to give me donkey-loads of cash in the form of gold coins just back from their secret storage facility somewhere under the alps, but you have to understand, I hate penguins. They smell bad and they have those nasty pointy beaks that scream out to the fact they’re going to try to peck my eyes out. It just won’t work, I’m sorry”

“Look, I realize Harper Collins is somewhat reputable as publishers go, but, I’m sorry, if you can’t pay me in some combination of Rolex watches and platinum doohickeys, I feel like you’re not really serious. Also, I think I need references.”

“Real Estate? Well, Ok, how much? The state of Montana? Hmmm.. can you throw in the odd little strip of Idaho that makes no actual sense squishing there between Washington and Montana? No? Why are we bothering? You people make me sick.”