If the formula seems silly, it may also be shockingly effective. The publisher has been holding these summits for four years, a period that coincides with an annual rise in profits and profile for HCI. Not a shabby feat, especially given the wave of consolidation that has come over the industry over the past few years. HCI is among the largest publishers outside New York, and depending on how you calculate it, may rate as one of the top 10 houses in the country. It has severely strengthened the so-called alternative market, placing books in channels like Home Depot and drugstores. Those wondering why the majority of books are sold outside traditional bookstores can thank, among others, HCI for its role in paving the road to new venues. At this event, representatives from wholesalers like Levy's, which specializes in drugstore and supermarket placement, are as much of a presence as those from more traditional quarters.

These wholesalers, along with the panoply of characters -- a slew of authors; Carol Fitzgerald, the sharp-tongued editor of the Book Reporter; Fred Ciporen, the publisher of Publishers Weekly -- lend the proceedings an impressive diversity. But that also creates a problem; the people and topics are just too general. At each session, the conversation either runs completely off course -- into talk of an episode of "Extra" about the recovery of long-lost skulls in one case -- or overly specific, kind of like, well, the "Chicken Soup" series itself.

A discussion at one session meanders into electronic publishing and the future of the book. The moderator, Allison Janse, doesn't seem keen on tolerating something so abstract. She lets it wander for a few minutes but then steers matters back in a more practical direction. "So," she asks, "where do you think recovery will go?"

"Recovery is out," David Hogue, a marketing director at book wholesaler Baker & Taylor, says baldly. Janse drinks in every word. "Why?"

"Because I think people are pretty much recovered."

It's an idle thought, and an arguable one at that, but Janse scribbles it down anyway. Then someone who's obviously read one too many Newsweek stories about the graying of the boomers makes a point about the exploding senior demographic. At the roundup after the session, an HCI employee reads back what we found, saying something about the teen market dying and stressing geriatric titles. Then, in a booklet that comes in the mail later, a write-up from the session reads "Health/Wellness will continue to sell as people will live longer."

Not surprisingly for a publisher that bases decisions on focus groups, most of HCI's titles seem pretty safe: "Second Thoughts on How to be as Terrific As Your Dog Thinks You Are" and "Feeling Great, Looking Hot and Loving Yourself." One would be hard-pressed to argue with these premises.

And then there's "Chicken Soup." Despite the success of the series, HCI, like many publishers carried by one property, remains conflicted about its anchor product. On one hand, success is a tasty dish, and the forces behind "Chicken Soup," through clever marketing and a keen sense of the zeitgeist, are proud of their achievements. But the stigma of Johnny One-Note is a powerful one, and employees at the publisher almost seem to bristle at the suggestion, however true, that "Chicken Soup" alone has enabled it to thrive.

It's a matter of economics, too. HCI's decision-makers are rightly concerned that as the "Chicken Soup" books get increasingly specialized -- recent editions include "Chicken Soup for the Soul at Work," "Chicken Soup for the Golfer's Soul" and "Chicken Soup for the Teenage Soul, Part III" -- the bubble could burst.

So, to stave off some of these consequences, the house has embarked on a kind of manic expansion. It launched a Judaica line with such curious titles as "Two Jews Can Still be a Mixed Marriage." To the extent that its cookies-and-milk framework permitted, it created sensationalist books like "The Cult of the Born Again Virgin," though one source later told me the book didn't do so well "because people don't want to be chaste."

The publisher even created a heretofore undevised category in American publishing: visionary fiction. I learn this the hard way -- foot-in-mouth. On the taxi ride in from the airport I share with Lanigan and her oilman husband, I decide to test her irony meter, despite knowing her for all of 10 minutes.

Maya Angelou reads from "The Heart of a Woman"