The Universe is not an outline. The Literary Universe refuses to believe that some of the tools we used to employ (like write an outline) to sell the thing, are dated. Publishing loves anything dated. It often feels like my Old Aunt Dimpleburger runs the whole thing. When I say that publishing is a cottage industry (they don’t work in the summer and they don’t work in December, and there’s spring break) where the cottages are all owned by Sneering Corporate Power. Cottage is a metaphore in a strange way. Your office could be in Trump Tower for all I know. Cottage is not the building. Cottage is the extent to which your outreach to readers is relevant. German media companies buy us out all the time. I don’t write outlines. I just write the thing. And I reserve the right to take some element in the story to a place more appropriate. So, right there, the outline is meaningless. When I was a book editor, I usually knew after two sentences. Publishing is as bad as it ever was. They learned nothing from a pandemic. Is anyone surprised at that. I am not surprised, and remain totally indifferent. The universe is not an outline. No next book shackles. “Oh, but they they said…” Who gives a fuck what anyone said. I said the agent works for me.