Two years ago, I would have thought Indie Publishing would overtake the market.
Now, I'm not too sure. Amazon.com, especially, is becoming overrun with horrible, unedited drivel. Readers are starting to notice this, and will not even bother taking up space on their kindle for some of the free trash that's floating around. There are too many sneaky indies out there giving the good ones a bad rep-using multiple accounts to give themselves good reviews and creating fake publishing companies run by themselves.
But, traditional publishers are going to have to find a happy medium, because readers are tired of paying more for ebooks than they are for paperbacks.

There's a fragment of truth in all fiction. Some aspect of everything I do has a trace element of me hidden somewhere inside, be it fear, humor, or sexuality. Though in my opinion, one of an author's goals is to remove his- or herself entirely from their work. The best way to do this is to keep switching it up from one extreme to the other-either hide the element in plain sight, or reference it so obscurely that only you would be able to recognize it.

Yeah, anything that can get my stories out there to more people is a good thing, but, being me, I've never owned or used a cell phone, and I don't have a Facebook or Twitter account. I feel that the more inaccessible you are, the more personal power you have. If people can reach out and touch you whenever they want, or can find out everything about you with a Google search, you give up something of your self, something special that you'll never get back again.

You're seven and innocent, or at least your missing front tooth and the three freckles across your button nose give that impression. Nevertheless, under your tuft of blonde hair lives a cesspool of disturbing thoughts. You giggle while using a purple crayon to draw the bicycle spoke you tied the kitten to before racing up and down the street. Dumping the contents of your crayon box, you find red and use it to make the kitten's blood trail on the asphalt.

Edna was a small, timid woman, except when it came to shopping. To call her a shopaholic was an understatement; the woman was obsessed with shopping, especially with sales. Even if it was in another town twenty miles away, she'd still drive there and buy all the sales items the store had in stock. Cases of everything from marshmallows to mustard littered their small suburban home, and the only rooms that weren't completely filled up with her bargains were the bathroom, the kitchen, and a very small portion of the living room.

Sam stood over her kitchen sink washing a chefs knife. "There, finally everything is clean again" she muttered to herself as she reached to turn off the water.
Drip....Drip....Drip.
Sam looked puzzled at the sink. She could hear something dripping, but it wasn't her sink. She gazed around her kitchen, trying desperately to place the noise. "The refrigerator?" she asked herself as she walked towards it. She gently put her ear up to the frig and her eyes gazed a pond of cream color paint on her floor.

Rosie strolled through the mall, pausing to admire a pair of shoes here, a soft print dress there - window shopping. This was one of her favorite pastimes on a Saturday morning. Her goal though was the Ye Old Curio Shoppe. She loved the place. It was always so interesting - full of antiques and haberdashery, even some old costumes that the Theater sent over from time to time. There was always some kind of treasure or trinket - and today Mrs. Evans was having a sale.

From inside her crib my daughter stares at me with a grim face, reaching with long skinny arms. I have no idea what she wants, just like in April when she tried to kill me.

Death would have been a sweet deliverance after thirteen hours of hard labor, but suddenly she came. A five pound female with eyes like those of a snake and lips the shade of a grape.

I can't help but regard Jacob with disgust. He's everything vile about this world, an abomination. Even now, watching him scuttle to the center of the well, one hand lifted to shield his eyes against the sudden intrusion of light, I feel nothing but determination. Jacob must die.

"Please, father."

His voice is a mere hollow rasp.

Very interesting interview! W.D is such an outstanding author and a great guy.

Beware of the crazies.

You are awesome, Brooke, thank you.

Thumbs up for a great interview with Bill!