Eleven years ago I sat at my computer feverishly typing out rhyme, with a mission to express the importance of waiting for the "Right" mate. A lot of the fantasy mates were created during my Mary Shelley think tanks. Through all the finger wagging and testosterone slinging, I discovered that we want the world, but choose what we know. My book of poetry, "Take me to the Water" had life's blood poured upon its pages, from the creation of an "Ideal Mate" to the expiration of "A Dream." Hook loaded with aromatic bait, I cast my line into the Atlantic Ocean of publishing. Reeling in new terminology like NO, poetry doesn't sell, Chap book, & Self Publishing. I joined the writers groups and associations, I attended dinners and award ceremonies. I booked signings, wrote press releases, loaded and unloaded boxes of books, sharing space with other self publishers, lined up row by row in auditoriums, gymnasiums and hotel lobbies. I told myself that this was better than having a publisher because all profits went directly to me, but the marketing got in the way of my creativity. The tour zapped my desire to write for fear of the sales pitch. Eleven years in the present, my children's book "Looking to the Clouds for Daddy" has reeled in Karen Hunter Publishing, teamed with Simon & Schuster distribution, what a catch! Self publishing served me well, like apples and oranges they're both great, but I have a preference.