Is it possible to submit writing to a publisher electronically or must it be a hard paper copy?

Addendum in gratitude---Wow now I know what Answers is for, or could be for in perhaps a better world. It gets so tediously dreary, as Im sure you all know, so desolate and sad to browse here among the semiliterate dreck and preposterously by-one-finger-typed entries that find theIr way here, having nothing better to do on a school night I suppose, both among the perennially idiot Qs and the incurably moronic As..."Duz my face look ugly?" "What is a gud name for a caracter who only eats cheese?" "Quik! I need an anser on this write now! My boyfried leaves his boogers on my coffe table all the timeand I dont know if I should be like, cleaning them up or waht? Does this means he like me ? (heleaves the little ones on the bottom adn teh big ones right on top)." And on and on and sadly, you guessed it, on. God it gets lonely, being able to spell a fair bit mostly, being able to think a little sometimes on a good day, and loving so much to push the exact right pattern of secret buttons on a keyboard so that the best little letters lay themselves down in a straight enough row that seems to be just what they've had in mind so that they (sometimes) begin to talk back all by themselves and create their own new worlds, unwinding and becoming and evolving there in the mystery and the majesty living somewhere and somehow under my fresh wet ink. Do you ever lose something you've written? Isnt it like misplacing a baby? or a limb? I do it too often, shocking myself with my carelessness or bad fortune or the ill timed demise of a fuse. Every fuse is a critic in waiting I guess. They should make little condoms we could paste over the damn delete key, I think. We should all be more careful. Too much just doesnt come back, and almost nothing comes back the same. I try not to be a priss. I try not to correct anyone's grammar or punctuation, and to rapidly hurt people who pick on mine. What strikes me is not merely the ability, we all can string a few words together, we all have spellchecker for goodness sake. Its the willingness to value. Its the taking of the time. Its the mad delirious utterly indefensible notion that of all the things we do in a day, all that is necessary and all that is not, this, this making of the worlds is the best good thing. A mattering thing. Its so silly. Just some marks made on a piece of paper, briefly glowing symbols fading fast now on an undusted monitor's screen. No one will ever read this, I often remind myself. We wont get paid. There is no applause for the typist. We do this because we love it. We do this because we must, if our lives and our minds and our spirits may have any joy. I love you all, you writers. I have received a dozen answers to my recent little question about self publishing and they were all balanced, articulate, careful, worthy, and true. You must all have spellcheck too, I reckon. I would mark them all best answer if I could. If anyone of you would ever care to send me a link to your work, or your playtime, or whatever it is you've got cookin', I would love that and I will read every one. I didnt say like, I said read. Lets not get too carried away. And I do know spamming is a sin and I hope this is not that, but you all are invited to my place at open.salon.com/blog/jusboutded. Its just a small party and I wont put out the good china until you get there. thank you, thank you, thank you all.