For over a thousand years decent writers were denied entry into their rightful estate by the established publication houses. I saw the bodies stacked in great heaps, their faces stretched out and frozen in mute horror at the idea that they would be forced to work in fast food brothels, bent over and grateful that they would be allowed to survive… but never, ever published. A jizzillion blog posts have already been written about the overthrow of the publishing houses and the rise of the independent elite. Superbeings are making money hand over fist writing for the Kindle, the Nook, the Dapper Device, the Rotating Electro-Spindle, and the new Tesla Text Distributor, but this is well-known by now so I won’t dwell on that.
What I will dwell on is something I’ve been reading lately, a serial by Winston Emerson called The Object. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: Even though it includes the arrival of a mysterious structure over Louisville, Kentucky, the important thing to remember is that it’s a “human condition” story in the vein of speculative fiction. It’s pretty awesome, and very addictive. If you’re even just vaguely aware that there are independent authors out there making entertaining stuff without the help of huge publishing bureaucratic conglomerates, then you need to check out The Object!