Me again. A great piece by David Thayer ran Monday on Booksquare. It's called "Publishers to Readers: We're Not that into You," and it paints a picture of publishers moving more toward brands like Harlequin and away from eccentric works like ... Kuhaku, anyone?

It's the age-old battle: artistic expression versus the demands of power, in this case corporate power. Remember that scene in The Player when Larry Levy brainstorms movie scripts from the headlines of the morning paper? His point is that writers and directors aren't necessary. Well, it seems the publishing industry is out to keep Larry's dream alive.

But we know that it's the friction between art and commerce which can create the most enduring work. Of course there are the geniuses among us on both ends of the spectrum who can either make beautiful art that doesn't sell or complete unredeeming crap that sells millions (which group would you put Michael Crichton in?), but for the rest of us, the process of honing our work with editors, designers, publicists, proofreaders and the rest of the publishing infrastructure is a struggle worth fighting through, one that can make a work stronger both artistically and commercially.

But what if the publishing industry gets so bloated, so sick on itself, that it becomes like the health industry? We all know American medical know-how is second to none, but we also know that our relationship with doctors, hospitals, preventive treatment and insurance has grown wildly dysfunctional. It's frightening, but the patients are not part of today's health-care equation.

The same is true in publishing, I would argue. The way Barnes & Noble, Borders, Wal-Mart and other large outlets buy and return books is analogous to a teenager with a case of bulimia. The binge-purge of retailers (their return rates often hit 40%!) makes as much sense as ever-rising health insurance costs. Readers and patients be damned.