I asked 1,296,455,699,381 of my friends if they have ever read a woman. They said no.

People are just stupid. I used to whine and complain about publishing day in and day out. I am so tired of writers writing: "publishers want to make money; it's a business."

Umm, duhh.

Newsflash: Publishers are the greediest people you will ever find anywhere and if you think they're out there running businesses, you are simply misinformed. Publishers have lunch. For the past century their mantra has been: "we have no money."

So. Like. Does anyone believe this. No.

Publishers lie.

And they cause scandals blamed on perfectly innocent writers to whom in times past said publishers said: "we will never publish you go away you annoying little person you."

So. Like. Then you hang your head and you go home and you write something they can make a buck at because if you don't you can't afford your AIDS meds and you will die unless you come up with ten thousand a month.

Publishing sucks.

I loathe these people. I hope they tastefully choke on Jane Austen's high heels.

And. Then. Boom. The whole thing went down the tubes. In one day.

Publishers said: "now, we really don't have a dime. In fact, you should pay US to publish your most interesting book."

Writers. Of both genders. Were stunned. They simply have no money no pay publishers to publish their books and the whole world went topsy turvy.

People are stupid and no one reads. Publishers are more stupid than anyone. They have sent me thousands of miles away to read in bookstores to an audience of one. I have read to toilets. You think I am being sarcastic. Ha.

I love Laura Miller madly. She reviewed me. She loved me. Now, she hates me. You figure. How she could have ignored the 3,900,361,307,229 books -- all of them sold to women -- by Danielle Steel is anyone's guess. I would just give up completely and argue that Danielle is the best thing since chopped dinosaur. What do you mean, publishing ignores women. It has Danielle. It feels it is doing its duty. Danielle can't write worth a hill of beans, but she's rich. Publishers ADORE rich writers. They don't complain.

I, too, want to be a publisher of only rich writers (none on medication of any kind). I would call my publishing house: Random Balls.

Bookstores can't sell enough of Danielle's literary masterpieces. Jane Austen? Come on, Laura. It's 2011. Dainelle Steel will be 2,3448,971 years old in 2012. She KNEW Jane Austen. Jane Austen was her friend.

Personally, I think Jane has crept into a couple of Danielle's plots. But Danielle must be restrained from writing novels set on the Scottish moor. No, Danielle, no.

I read Danielle Steel day and night. Night and day. It's all I do. My mansion's library overflows with books by that woman. And then I hand her books out for free to stupid people who ask if Danielle was ever in a scandal.

No. She can afford her neurological medication.

If you were to walk into any publishing house (I am not kidding) like Random Balls, who would you see.

Women.

Everyone jumping up and down in their Manolo Blahniks and Jimmy Choo's, reaching for that glass ceiling held in place by men. It's unseemly. I try not to watch. When Joni Evans walked into William Morris, what was the first thing she did.

Hire a female to assist her.

The assistants seriously, seriously want the power and they all went to Smith or Brown and none of them can afford to live in Manhattan and who do you think RUNS publishing.

Women.

Nevertheless, it's not a question of gender. Umm. Like. Please. This is publishing. Get a clue. It's not about sex (well, a little). It's not about money (there is none). It's not about books or reading. IT'S ABOUT WHO YOU KNOW.