The ground around us rumbled as his anger shook the building. “It’s all against us.” He bemoaned so loudly, people at the writer’s conference dove under tables and ducked under sturdy door frames. “I don’t understand.” I gripped a nearby support beam. “Only romance is published!” “Ah.” I rubbed my ruptured eardrum. “You write action, lots of violence. Right?” He told me about the attack jet F-15’s new forward cannon that fired silver bullets to tear demons to shreds.