There’s a thing about being an indie author, or indie artist of any kind really, that requires you to be made of thicker stuff than most people. The reason is not only because you’re out there alone in the great big bad world, but also because what seem like fantastic milestones and life achievements for you do little more to excite the world than toast getting burnt. Perhaps the most apt example would be the completion of your first great project, whether it’s a book or a song or whatnot, and feeling this enormous rush. All the hours and hours of slaving away to create your masterpiece has finally resulted in the completed project, and you just can’t wait to share it with the world. It’s euphoria at its finest. Only thing is, your bubble gets cruelly popped as you finally get around to telling the world, and no one cares.