The first thing I envision when I hear the word “Indie” is Harrison Ford in a burning bar coming to the rescue of that chick. (you know, the “Indie!” chick). But these days the word Indie is flopped around like so many portly bellies at a drunken, backyard Slip and Slide party.
So what pray tell exactly is an “Indie?” (See examples here and here. This is where I’m going with all this. Save yourself the grief. Skip the blog post and check out this great sale of Indie books.) Most simply it is an independent artist. An independent artist is actually a leech on society, dependent on everyone and their parakeet to throw him or her crusts from their peanut butter and jelly. But in this case the independent part means the artist has shucked off the chafing restraints of the medium’s traditional gatekeepers.
As a writer I’m on-line more than I’m asleep. Heck, sometimes I use the internet while I’m asleep. My internet time is like dust particles in the air I breath. Without it there wouldn’t be any creative mucous buildup, and therefore nothing spectacular to blow out on the page.