I have an e-mail address on my blog, and I check it routinely—only to find many attempted scams and presumptuous mail. If I want to find you, I’ll find you. I do not need your contact information. If I can find you, you can find me. It is kind of sad. Too many writers do any and everything that literary agents, literary books, and literary sites encourage. But as you warned in your own words, “What about the creepy guy with the Power Rangers ‘figurines’ stashed in the closet?”
Literary kill is the creepy guy. He preys on a writer’s desire to become a household name and then invents schemes to steal the writer’s dream.
Isn’t it better to live in reality? Dreaming is good, but we, writers, must know the difference. A publisher once told me he didn’t like writers but really despised poets. I asked why? He said writers are arrogant, but poets even more. I ask, whose problem is it anyway? Have literary agents and publishers escaped? Are they arrogant too? Do they watch the news? Whose responsibility is it to protect writers from vicious schemes?
Writers isn’t reading your wonderful writings worth more than paying predators? Predators prey on egos, dreams, and passions. They do not deserve your compassion.
It is my responsibility not to think more of myself than is necessary. I ride a small horsey with my feet dragging the ground. I write to me, for me, and from me. If I am unworthy of traditional publishing because I refuse to offer my vein to literary phlebotomists, what does that really have to do with me? No disrespect intended, but if I want you, I’ll find you. That is, if I’m looking for gold.