You spend years and years writing stories. Eventually, you have one that’s good enough to show to the world.

But then you learn no one will publish sci-fi/fantasy/serious/slightly whimsical mash-ups. They aren’t like the latest bestseller, say literary agents. There’s no shelf for them in book shops, say publishers.

The internet points out, helpfully, that you are wasting your time. Stop writing, it says. Go buy something. A car. Or a nose hair trimmer.

But actually it’s OK. Because you discover indie authors. Writers who write and publish thousands of brilliant books a year, without help from agents or publishers — or glitzy launch parties.

And you like indie things. Indie music and movies. Indie shops and brewers and coffee. So you decide to become an indie author. And immediately, as if by magic, you are one. Hooray!

Now all you need is a website. An editor. A cover design. A marketing plan. And, of course, a short, sharp story, that introduces your universe and some of the main characters in it.

But hey, you’re an indie author. Surely you can knock up one of those in five minutes?