To anyone with an Internet connection and a love of literature, it’s obvious that self-publishing is the future of the book industry.
You know what I always wanted to be, ever since I was a kid? A storyteller. Not just a writer, but a teller of stories.
Last year, 1.5 million words or so hit the market with my name on them. This year, the same thing happened.
“We cannot be far from the road of yellow brick, now,” remarked the Scarecrow, as he stood beside the girl, “for we have come nearly as far as the river carried us away.”
Our little party of travelers awakened the next morning refreshed and full of hope, and Dorothy breakfasted like a princess off peaches and plums from the trees beside the river.
They were obliged to camp out that night under a large tree in the forest, for there were no houses near.
All this time Dorothy and her companions had been walking through the thick woods. The road was still paved with yellow brick, but these were much covered by dried branches and dead leaves from the trees, and the walking was not at all good.
When Dorothy awoke the sun was shining through the trees and Toto had long been out chasing birds around him and squirrels. She sat up and looked around her. Scarecrow, still standing patiently in his corner, waiting for her.
After a few hours the road began to be rough, and the walking grew so difficult that the Scarecrow often stumbled over the yellow bricks, which were here very uneven.
When Dorothy was left alone she began to feel hungry. So she went to the cupboard and cut herself some bread, which she spread with butter.
She was awakened by a shock, so sudden and severe that if Dorothy had not been lying on the soft bed she might have been hurt.
Dorothy lived in the midst of the great Kansas prairies, with Uncle Henry, who was a farmer, and Aunt Em, who was the farmer’s wife.