Publishing is unforgiving. There are writers who follow the rules. Never, ever coloring outside the prescribed places you can go. Especially rules that challenge the publishing status quo’s take on reality. To call it reality, everyone must agree, even the other writers who will delight in taking you apart, another brick in the wall. Look what he did over there, look what he did here, look what he said, that heathen, that liar, that Who Does He Think He Is. We followed the rules. We Are blameless. He is a slave to the Emperor he hates. Complain complain. While we appear in bookstores wearing the best fashion, the best books, the best lists, the best awards, the best of the best, what nudity, while that jerk (this means me) over there says the Emperor is barenaked. We are shocked. Heaven forbid. Children might see him. Children must be protected. The children. The children. Enough. Kids are smarter than we think they are. Their take on reality usually outrages us. Conform. We stand barenaked before the children. They shrug. They will then, being children, head for the playground anyway, and children are barometers of the sane and swing sets. Reality is many things, sane is not one. No one ever reads a banned book because it’s been banned. Quick! Hide that evil book under the pillow. All of my books have been banned. Some of them, they call gay books. Some of them, they call straight books. Books have many things. Like text. Sexuality is a trait no book has. They’re books.