She seemed keener to discuss the beer she had been offered (Widmer Brothers drop top amber ale) and which she vowed went well with the Pernod and advocaat she always carries in her hip flask, than the author who proffered both beer and book. So you may imagine one’s consternation when Mumsie returned from a holiday in some distant corner of darkest America, clutching a tome she had signed by some random author having purchased it at a garage sale or some such from all one could fathom. It is only the elite, the creme-de-la-best, such as your beloved pedagogue oneself, who shine brightly out from the pallid throng and thus are worthy of consideration as serious producers of literature.

The average ‘indie author’, dear reader who writes, is not worth the time of day. But one needs to be clear about the difference between one’s own sterling achievements and those who simply upload whatever dross they may have vomited over their keyboards in grunge ridden attics, whilst no doubt intoxicated by substances which one would struggle to pronounce as chemical formulae. One speaks, of course, of that dubious fraternity the ‘indie authorhood’.īut, one hears a baffled disciple murmur in perplexed tones, did not you, dear mentor, belong to that brave band of scribes who carve their own initials in the hall of publishing fame?Īh, yes, indeed that is so. One will openly admit that one much prefers to read literature that has stood the test of time over that which is, so to say, fly-by-night literature from origins suspect and with no listed publisher willing to put their name on the colophon.

Hunting Darkness by Ian Bristow