Indie authors get into this gig because we’ve got something to say. Maybe we have a story to tell, an observation about life that we want to share with others. Some of us just love words. We love stringing them together like lights on a Christmas tree. Some of us line up our words in neat rows, they flash and dazzle in ordered patterns, maybe to the tune of a familiar song that everybody wants to sing along with. Some of us toss them together in a more volatile combination, flashing chaotically as they mesmerize a reader into peering deep in search of patterns that come from within the reader, and not the lights themselves. Tempting the reader to find order and meaning in the way they speak their message.

Some of us love words enough to find that our words are will o’th’wisps, flickering with light and warmth that’s always just out of reach, leading us deeper into a swamp that is at once a terrible danger of the landscape of fluid thoughts, and a rich ecosystem of potentiality, where our assumptions can be challenged, and the ground only looks solid until you poke it with a stick and find something very different from what you expected, floating underneath.

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