There is a strange expectation that once you become known for something, you are supposed to remain there forever. You pick a genre. You build a brand. You find your voice. And then, apparently, you are expected to keep writing the same kinds of stories for the rest of your life.

There is a strange kind of loneliness that comes with being an indie author, and I don't think we talk about it enough.

They're on shelves. They're stacked on tables. They're tucked into corners, waiting for their turn to be read. Some are pristine collector's editions. Others have cracked spines and yellowed pages that tell stories long before the words inside ever begin.