I was once a 24-year-old in Brooklyn, living off a savings account and the occasional freelance check. I'm now 29, gainfully employed as a publicist, and have just been denounced as a "ghoul" by the ghost of my former self. Yet somehow I'm not ashamed...? Perhaps because I don't fit the above description (nor do my colleagues, for that matter). I send tailored pitches to targeted media and I exercise restraint when using exclamation points. Most importantly, I'm not offering trash for review; I'm offering books. Yes, Ryan O'Hanlon, aspiring author: if/when your writing is published, you will have to rely on those word-sending vultures in the publicity department to get your book in the hands of editors--editors who (and I hope you see where I'm going with this) might accept the review copy but not actually write the review. Because, duh. Dog-eat-dog, and so on and so forth. Anyway, gotta go draft some more twisted moral contracts!