Finishing my first novel, Scarla, was a great feeling, partly because up until then, I’d never really intended to write a book. As it turned out, the journey was more rewarding than I anticipated. Being brand new to the medium, I had my doubts about gaining entry into the publishing world with the first arrow slung. After all, who was I but some indie film guy anyway? Throw a stone, you’ll hit one – and if you need help aiming, I know a few who deserve to be hit. But I digress. Forging ahead with a completed manuscript, I decided to skip the brouhaha and do what far too many are doing these days: self-publishing. What was there to lose? I wasn’t supposed to be sitting on a book anyway, it was more of a creative personal exercise. Or exorcism. Scarla had been on the shelf for a while, in screenplay form, and while it was rocking boats, it was a risky endeavour. Her story straddled the fence, so to speak, and rode the line. Hard.

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