Brethren and Sistren in the wind; Greetings. For too long now I have pondered on why I have been so notsuccessful in selling my Shovelhead Red novels. Waiting for orders that never come, twiddling my mental thumbs, I reflect on why my books dont sell while a procession of poorlywritten, idiotic stories about some zitface named Henry, or Horace Potter, or something like that; who flies around on a BROOM, changing himself into a variety of critters at will, and making some Limey housewife richer than Bill Gates, the Pope, and God, combined.

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