Forgive me if I sound a little exasperated.

Hugh Howey wrote a thing at Salon and it’s a very interesting article and you should go read it. It is, in my probably-not-that-humble opinion, a fascinating mix of artistic wisdom and business fantasy where anecdotal evidence once more becomes artisanal data and we are told that because you can meet 100 very successful self-published authors that is now officially the way to go and oh, by the way, it’s totally the future of all publishing ever.

I distrust fortune-tellers, to be honest.

Mostly because it’s made-up horseshit.

Further, you can’t just canvass a handful of successful people and immediately declare that their success draws the map to the One Shining Path Up Authornuts Mountain. If I talk to 20 traditionally-published bestselling thriller authors, they’re going to say, “Write a thriller, get published by the Big Five.” If I talk to 100 self-published successes, they’re going to say, “Self-publish everything.” If I talk to 100 self-published failures, they’re going to say, “Fuck that noise, I lost my shirt.” If I talk to 100 dentists, they’re going to say, “You should be a dentist, dumb-ass, NOW LET ME EAT YOUR TEETH,” then he’ll eat my teeth because my dentist is actually some kind of teeth-eating monster, but whatever, that’s a story for another time.

Here’s the thing: Howey’s by all reports a very nice guy. And obviously smart as hell. And more than a little lucky. His article is well-written and buried in there is a strong cry to bolster craft and for you, the writer, to write first and foremost for the love of writing.

To which I say: fuck. yeah.

But, he also says stuff like:

But what is becoming more apparent with every passing day is that you have a better chance of paying a bill or two through self-publishing than you do through any other means of publication.

Italics his, not mine.

I self-publish. I do pretty well at it with a number of books (and for those asking, I will have another writing book out within the next three-four months, alongside a book of recipes and essays and Search Term Bingo called Revelations of the Bacon Angel).

I traditionally-publish. I do pretty well at that, too, I think, and actually over the last two years have well-eclipsed anything I made self-publishing.

Just the same, I don’t think one is better than the other.

So, here’s my response, which you already know because I’ve said it a hundred times before but fuck it, I’m nothing if not a fan of reiterating my own bleating and barfing:

Hey, self-publishing is cool!

Traditional publishing is cool, too!

Both have strengths. And also weaknesses.

Not everybody is fit to be their own publisher.

Not everyone is fit to deal with a traditional publisher.

Something-something Kickstarter! And Amazon! And literary agents! And small presses! And big presses! And this genre and that genre! And Wattpad and Book Country and Goodreads and Bookish and Twitter and iBooks and Smashwords and Simon & Schuster and Barnes & Noble and blargh and flargh and zippity-motherfucking-doo-dah!

The reason we don’t put all our eggs in one basket is because broken goddamn eggs!

No one way exists!

Try lots of shit!

Leverage one thing against another thing!

Don’t join cults!

Self-publishing isn’t The Future, it’s One Possible Future!

Educate and inspire instead of segregating and pointing fingers!

Beware easy answers!

This isn’t a war! Nobody has to win!

Write your ass off!

Art harder!

Exclamation points!

Words!

Nap!

*zzzz*

This is not going to be a particularly cogent post.

It will, however, be a spoiler-filled one.

So, warning: when you bite into this donut, SPOILER JELLY GONNA COME OUT.

That’s also what I call my semen, by the way. Spoiler Jelly. When we conceived of our son, I yelled to my wife, “Spoiler Alert: YOU’RE PREGNANT!” Then I did the Konami Contra Code and flew away on a rocketship made of Pac-Man corpses.

I’m lying about all that.

Still, I think I’ve given enough space, but once more for good measure:

SPOILER.

WARNING.

Okay.

Let’s get into it.

So, you know by now there’s this game. Bioshock: Infinite. It’s a sequel (not really, which will soon be apparent) to what is certainly one of my favorite games of all time: Bioshock.

I finished it last night.

My head’s still twerkin’ it against the walls of my skull.

I mean, I think I know what happened. The game ends up being a lot more about quantum mechanics and alternate realities and — in a way, the very nature of experiencing story and narrative through the particular and peculiar lens of playing a game — than you’d think. On the surface it seems like a game that’s about racism and nationalism, about prejudice and religious zealotry. And it is. In part.

But all that’s just a ruse.

It’s a game about choices.

Those choices are expressed by the obvious decisions you make as a player inhabiting a character and also as the myriad realities (which are just a shift from the reality you begin with) opened and explored by Elizabeth, your “ward” through the story.

For a long time I played the game looking for what I hoped were literal connections to the narrative of Bioshock: you find all these little moments and aspects reminiscent of that first game, and to a degree, the second. Elizabeth has the vibe of a Little Sister, and of course has her own version of the Big Daddy in the form of the very fucking big Songbird until you soon start to realize that in a sense you’re her Big Daddy (B.D. = Booker DeWitt), a thought evoked even more during moments like when you help Elizabeth scamper up into a vent (in that case to kill Daisy). Further, it becomes all the more clear when you realize hey, you’re her real Daddy, not just her protector (but give it a minute, we’ll get into that).

You’ll find other things, too: the falling/fallen city above the world instead of below it. Tonics and automated security and vigors and Plasmids and on and on. Plus, the protagonist of Bioshock is a child seemingly created out of Andrew Ryan’s genetic structure and Elizabeth is seemingly a child created from the genetic structure of Comstock and both are “special” and are potentially secretly controlled at the outset. Further, in Bioshock 2 Sofia Lamb has a daughter, Eleanor Lamb, who helps the Big Daddy protagonist of that game (albeit at a distance), not unlike how Elizabeth (also called The Lamb) helps Booker DeWitt inside Infinite.

So, my head was spinning: is Elizabeth somehow connected to the Big Daddy program? Does she change her name and go on to be a part of Rapture? Is she Sofia? How does it connect?

Then you find out: it doesn’t connect. Not in a straight narrative line.

You get to the end and realize not only is Elizabeth your daughter but that all these narrative hooks you’re finding aren’t literal connections but rather thematic bridges — constants in the quantum game of “constants and variables” — that show you these games are connected not so much by plot chronology so much as by the abstraction of multiple realities. Realities expressed by choices. Realities where things change less than you’d think, even though the trappings are different. Where the constants outweigh the variables.

And that’s what’s fucked up. That’s what’s got my head all goofy like a kinked-up garden hose. Bioshock is about choice: the Ayn Randian individualist genius-fed ethic versus the collectivist altruism of, say, Sofia Lamb. The protagonist, Jack, has the choice of how to deal with the Little Sisters (which is admittedly a little blunt and obvious, one of those classic videogame moral choices of “Feed the orphan or kick him to death”), and those choices add up to a different ending depending on how you played.

Infinite has no alternate endings.

And it has no real choice.

And at first, that’s frustrating. (From a gameplay perspective, it still is.) Narratively, though, it adds up: all the choices Booker DeWitt thinks he has — and you think you have as a player — are hollow. It all goes the same way. You always become Comstock in one reality and, as Comstock, always go to your other weaker self in another reality to buy your own daughter back so she can become the Lamb. And though there exists the razzle-dazzle of infinite lighthouses and myriad realities, you see that it always goes down the same way, a way expressed by Sofia Lamb way back in Bioshock 2:

“For every choice, there is an echo. With each act, we change the world. One man chose a city, free of law and God. But others chose corruption. And so the city fell. If the world were reborn in your image, would it be paradise, or perdition?“

Choices and echoes of choices. Choice and change still goes the same way: cities fall. Machine men still walk. Men still augment with tonics and Plasmids and Vigors. Paradise becomes perdition. Opposing forces still clash. Men are still revealed to be selfish and blood-thirsty.

Power corrupts. Mankind is lost.

And so choice is revealed to be an illusion.

At the end of the game you even have a scene where Elizabeth stands over her own crib as the Lutece “brother” (not actually a brother but an alternate world version of the Lutece “sister”) and tells you, essentially, that no matter what you think you’re going to do, at the end of the day you have no choice: like in nearly any video game you’re on rails, you poor motherfucker, and you’re going to hand the baby over because otherwise the game won’t progress.

(There’s even an earlier conversation with the Luteces at the start and the end of the game about how you, the protagonist, “doesn’t row,” which one wonders if that’s because you don’t have the ability as a video game character to row. Or maybe I’m just reading too much into it.)

The very, very end of the game is a knife in the ribs, really — as opposed to the ending of the first Bioshock, which literally had me cheering and tearing up — where you realize that there may be one last choice to make and that choice is to kill Comstock at the time of his birth, and that’s when you realize that his “birth” was the literal “born again” moment of a baptism where the persona Booker DeWitt is washed away and Comstock emerges. (This is one point of the game that I don’t quite understand — all the quantum dickery afoot tends to be explained by machines and theory and sci-fi wizardry, but the seemingly literal rebirth of the baptismal moment must be entirely mystical. Unless it’s less literal than I had imagined?)

So, there at the end the one choice is to kill yourself.

Or, to die by the hands of Many Elizabeths, all of whom drown you together and then disappear one by one until only one remains (and there I’m left to wonder if even that one Elizabeth flickers out of existence). It is again evocative of the endings of the previous two games: potential death, several Little Sisters, the culmination of a journey, the aspect of water. (There’s a scene after the credits that maybe confuses this a little, or maybe instead just suggests it’s all going to replay again and again and even death cannot stop the snake eating his own tail.)

Tricky stuff.

Great game.

Amazing story. Strong acting. Killer writing.

Art direction was profound and perhaps the prettiest I’d ever seen in a game. Though sometimes a lack of interactivity (can’t crack glass with your Sky Hook, if you step in front of a lit projector it shows no shadow, etc) were a bit puzzling surprising how incredible the scenery was.

Gameplay felt incredibly well balanced, if a little old-school. Greater variety in how to approach enemies would’ve been welcome, I think.

The “bad guy motivations” of racism and nationalism and religious zealotry got a little muddy and obvious — it’s on par with making the Nazis the bad guy, though then that gets appropriately and wonderfully more complicated as the downtrodden rise up and become as bad as the oppressors. (Though that may be making a controversial statement, one that could be interpreted poorly though it’s certainly bound up with the themes of the game.)

(Also a tiny part of me wonders what the game would look like without the violence. Still first-person, but driven more by mystery and adventure, not “kill these dudes.”)

The lack of choice is wildly appropriate given the story, but just the same I felt like Infinite was missing that kind of player assertion, if only from a “personal satisfaction” standpoint. As a player inhabiting a character, you want to feel like what you do matters, and the first two games had alternate endings and this one, ennh, didn’t. Again, appropriate to the story they’re telling and thematically on-point, but that’s not always satisfying. If we are to assume that there are constants and variables I would’ve liked to have seen these variables still be a… well, a constant. (The first two games focus on mercy as the choice and I miss that here.)

So, that’s that.

Love to hear your thoughts if you got ’em.

Alex Hughes was here not too long ago answering a whole different set of questions about herself and her first book, Clean, and now she’s back in the darkened corridors of terribleminds, inc. to answer ten more questions about the second in the series: Clean.

TELL US ABOUT YOURSELF: WHO THE HELL ARE YOU?

(Waves.) Hi, I’m Alex. I’m a hopeless nerd, science geek, history buff, major foodie, and I write things. Sometimes people read these things and like them.

GIVE US THE 140-CHARACTER STORY PITCH:

A telepath and ex-addict helps the police in future Atlanta solve crimes. This time, the victim is one of his old students.

WHERE DOES THIS STORY COME FROM?

Sharp is the second book in the Mindspace Investigations series. I knew when I finished Clean (the first book) that I wasn’t done with the character yet. There were consequences from some of his choices that had to play out in the real world (vague only to avoid spoilers). Plus I wanted to see what would happen if he was under more pressure from different sources. And the Guild. We definitely needed to see more from the Telepath’s Guild and Enforcement–who by the way, is investigating Adam.

HOW IS THIS A STORY ONLY YOU COULD’VE WRITTEN?

Where else are you going to find physics-based telepathy, addiction, an interesting war in the backstory, a grumpy workaholic love interest, and a Telepaths’ Guild in the same book? I mean, obviously. Plus there’s a murder investigation, and a new character, Michael, who’s recently been promoted to detective and dealing with two very strange coworkers. It’s a story only I could have written because–well, because I wrote it. Enough said.

WHAT WAS THE HARDEST THING ABOUT WRITING SHARP?

Learning to write on a deadline. I also attempted to write on an outline, which did not work out as well as I’d hoped. I ended up throwing out 15,000 words, many of which eventually became the novella Payoff (also available for purchase; it works much better as a shorter story). Then I wrote on another outline, threw that out, and started over with my original ideas and process. I also blocked out nine books total in broad terms so I’d know where the story was going, which took up time most people would have used writing. But, as my writers’ group knows, I find the sheer panic of an impending deadline to be very focusing. I turned in the book a little early, even.

WHAT DID YOU LEARN WRITING SHARP?

Writing books is hard. The second book in a series is even harder; you have to be as amazing as the first one, but also new. Oh, and that deadline thing? Changes everything. You can’t sit and think about a scene’s “heart” for three days in a row; you have to write the next damn scene. This is both a wonderful and terrible thing.

WHAT DO YOU LOVE ABOUT SHARP?

I love the subplot with Jacob and how Cherabino asks for help. I love the interactions between Adam and Kara in the book. And I love what Michael does for the dynamic of the team. Plus the villain(s) in this one is (are) a lot more interesting. [Again, vagueness to avoid spoilers, sorry.] And the cool science moments are pretty cool.

WHAT WOULD YOU DO DIFFERENTLY NEXT TIME?

Do a little less writing under the sheer panic of the impending deadline, stop trying to do the outline thing which isn’t me at all, and relax. This writing thing is hard, but it’s also super fun.

GIVE US YOUR FAVORITE PARAGRAPH FROM THE STORY:

This answer changes depending on the day you ask me. Today it’s a cool science moment:

As we waited for the local TCO officer to show, I watched the Sigmacrete heal itself. The nanoid cells moved too slowly for the eye to pick up, but you looked away for a moment and came back, and a piece of the interstate’s long skid damage had filled in. A tiny piece, sure, less than the width of a thumbnail, but over time, the deep grooves were getting narrower and narrower, less and less deep. It was fun to watch, or try to.

WHAT’S NEXT FOR YOU AS A STORYTELLER?

Try Cool Stuff. Write More In the Series. Write More Not in the Series. Be Bold, Be Fearless, Be Me. With plenty of capitalization.

Alex Hughes: Website

Sharp: Amazon / B&N / Indiebound

So, I read this article: “I’m A Self-Publishing Failure.”

It’s funny enough.

Pokes a bit of fun at author expectations.

Ha-ha, another Salon article where the writer didn’t suddenly strike it rich.

Except, there’s a deeper thread of something here.

And it’s something that isn’t maybe so nice, or maybe so right.

“Self-publishing is the literary world’s version of masturbation, except the results are quite often less thrilling, and you usually end up with a mess.”

Here’s the thing. I don’t know who John Winters is. I’m sure he’s nice. He seems to write well. But contained within this article are a few very important lessons for potential self-publishers:

First, you can’t just be a writer. Self-publishing is… gasp, not the same thing as writing. This fellow took his unpublished work, hit the publish button, and then leaned back and waited for the trap-door to open above his head and spill a fluttering rain of sweet, sweet cash on his naked body. Yeah, whoa, buddy, you actually have to commit more work than that. I assume this is his book to buy (and it seems to have appeared on Amazon the same day as this article, so I’m not sure what that means or says), and the cover is… ehhh, okay, and sure, yes, he went ahead and bought a little advertising and did a video — but that leads me to my next point:

You can’t just self-publish into the void. Self-publishing is a bit like Kickstarter in that it helps if you’re already talking to someone. Meaning, you have a robust social media network or author friends or an audience built off of… blogging or short fiction or other novels or puppet shows starring your genitals in various costumes, whatever. Here’s what this guy did: he seems to have wandered out, plunked his book down in the middle of a grassy field, then wandered away and waited for the fans to come screaming from the four Cardinal directions to scoop up his book and make him rich. Minimal promotion, minimal anything, just publication and — once again, the trap-door opens and BOOSH it’s raining money, motherfuckers. I’m not saying this is impossible, but it’s woefully fucking unlikely.

Frankly, this is difficult to do with even a traditionally-published novel. But there lies the third lesson: if you don’t have the publishing chops and don’t have any kind of inbuilt audience or signal boost, then traditional publishing is a smarter path. I don’t mean this universally, I just mean that self-publishing successfully takes a certain kind of reach and/or work ethic that doesn’t fit well with some folks. A publisher has that reach and that ethic (in theory) to carry your book forward in ways you could not or were not willing to explore.

Final note: self-publishing is not a get-rich-quick scheme. I feel like we all know this, and yet day in and day out you see authors who just keep expecting to up and quit their day jobs because they self-published one thing and one thing not well.

This is not me dinging self-publishing. You can do it and you can do it well —

Case in point, Marko Kloos with his novel, Terms of Enlistment.

Marko decided to do much as John Winters had done, and he put his book up on the marketplace and now, only a few weeks later, it has 100+ reviews, keeps dipping into the Kindle Top 100, is #1 in Military Sci-Fi, and is all in all just rocking it. He did this by writing first a good book, but also because Marko has a small but potent audience already. He has people who are willing to signal boost for him. That gets the ball rolling.

Marko is doing it right.

John Winters is just, as he says, masturbating.

Imagine, as the image indicates, a straight line.

This straight line is everything.

It is your path through school.

It is your path through life.

It is the status quo.

It’s eyes forward at your school desk. It’s a cubicle monkey job. It is the safe and simple path. It stretches out in a calm and linear fashion. It has handrails and is nicely lit and has benches and pigeons and old people sitting on benches and old people feeding the pigeons.

The straight path is the direct path.

It is also the path of the protagonist before a story begins. It is the life everyone expects of her. Or, perhaps, the life that everyone demands. The line is situation normal. The line is plain vanilla frosting. The line is office parties and yearbook photos.

The line is conservative and afraid.

The line is fucking boring.

Let’s add some lines. Let’s mix this shit up.

That is Freytag’s Triangle, or Freytag’s Pyramid.

It is often defined as the expected structure for story.

We have our inciting incident: a thing happens. That one thing that happens is a thing that complicates every other thing and so we end up with rising action — that action lifts and rises and eases upward like a roller coaster on a gentle incline until the cork pops and the cookie breaks and then it’s all downhill from there, a climactic gasp and rupture before tumbling downward in the falling action toward resolution.

It is, in a sense, also the larger arc expected of our lives.

We’re born, we learn shit, we do some fucking stuff, job and friends and family and sex and conflicts and complications and triumphs and then one day we reach some unseen narrative apex and after that it’s all soft foods and oversized diapers and beds with hospital rails.

Given over, as it were, to the denouement of death.

This triangle is, as triangles are, three straight lines bolted together at the joints.

Which makes it more interesting than one straight line.

But, frankly, the triangle is still boring.

It’s also pretty fucking inaccurate.

Here, then: another line.

A line of life. A line of story.

A line that pivots and shifts on up-beats and down-beats. A plus for a win, a minus for a loss. A steeper rise based on a more bad-ass triumph: we won the race, we got the job, we killed the bad guy, we painted the Mona Lisa. A steeper descent for a perilous fall: a parent dies, we lose our business, the bad guy wins, bankruptcy, disease, betrayal, oh no, oh fuck, egads.

Or, little bumps and dips: found my keys! Broke a heel! Hey, a cupcake! Oh damn, dog poop.

This is not the expected line.

The expected line is straighter. Or more gradual.

It’s pre-defined. Pre-understood.

But our lives are not pre-defined. Nor are they well-understood.

Which means our stories shouldn’t be, either.

A line can be any shape we want it to be. A gentle curve suggests a slow build and a slide downward. A sharp peak is a knife’s blade, a mountain’s peak, a fast rise and a quick fall.

Lives and stories needn’t be driven by a single line. We can imagine a number of lines running together, tangled into knots. Here a line of plot, of narrative beats. There a line of character. One line for emotional tension, a second for physical, a third measuring thematic shifts or tonal turns or the signal-fires of various mysteries lit with questions and doused with answers.

Sometimes lines go fucking batshit.

As they should.

One line falls when you think it should rise.

One line ends when you think it’s just beginning.

Some lines are the snake that bites its own tail, a spiral, a circle, looping back on itself and becoming that thing and that place it was trying to flee all along.

Some lines detonate — a plunger pressed, a dynamite choom, an unexpected gunshot in the dark of the night, a sudden collapse of an old life, a death that is life that is rebirth that is death all over again, a massive avalanche, a soot-choked cave-in, a heart rupture, a giddy explosion.

The lines of our stories and our lives should not be safe, straight walking paths.

They should be electric eels that squirm and shock. They should be the lines in Escher prints, the peaks and valleys of mountains and volcanoes, the sloppily painted strokes of a drunken chimpanzee. The right line, the interesting line, is a line that defies, that spells out fuck this noise, that is shaped like a middle finger aimed squarely at the expectations of others.

Storytelling is an act of rebellion. Story is a violation of the status quo.

Everything the straight line tells you to do is how you know to do differently.

When you think you have the answer, defy it with a new question.

When the path seems well-lit, kill the lights and wander into darkness.

When the way is straight, kick a hole in the wall to make a new door.

When everything seems so obvious, closes your eyes and look for what remains hidden.

Seek the wild lines.

The straight line is our anti-guide.

Do so in the act of narrative design, of storytelling architecture. We anticipate what is expected — the music swells, hero saves the princess, the protagonist seems to have lost everything, the villain twirls his mustache, the dominoes line up in a nice neat pattern and fall one by one as ineluctable as the phases of the moon — and then we say, fuck that shit, George, and we kick over the dominoes and we kill the princess and we make the villain the hero (and he doesn’t have a mustache to twirl but rather mutton chops to comb vigorously). We take a camping hatchet to Freytag’s Fucking Triangle and chop it into pieces and make our own shape — a mysterious square, a love rhombus, a thrilling tumbling dodecahedron of two-fisted spectacle.

It shows us too how to describe things. The status quo is a known quantity and so it does not demand the attention of our description — we know what a chair looks like, a bed, a wall, the sky, that tree. The straight line is as plain and obvious as a pair of ugly thumbs. We know to describe instead the things that break our expectation, that stand out as texture, that are the bumps and divots and scratches and shatterpoints of that straight line. We describe those things that must be known, that the audience cannot otherwise describe themselves, that contribute to the violation of their expectations. We don’t illuminate every tree in the forest: just that one tree that looks like a dead man’s hand reaching toward the sky, pulling clouds down into its boughs, the tree from whence men have hanged and in which strange birds have slept. We describe the different tree. The tree that matters. The crooked tree that doesn’t belong.

And we as storytellers are the crooked trees that do not belong.

For what we do is an act of twisting the straight line, not just in the architecture of our own stories but in the design of our own lives, not just in the art itself but in the life-long expression of that art. Nobody wants you to be a storyteller. They want you to sit in a box. They want you to crunch your numbers or fill that pail or dig that ditch or learn how to do the things that will let you make that money, hunny-bunny. They want you to do the things that are expected of you. They want to wave to you from their own straight lines, comfortable that you’re all on the same ride together, certain that you’re all safe and going in the same direction and, oh, hey, look, benches, and old people, and pigeons.

But the storyteller is the shaman. The storyteller whoops and gibbers and flees the safe path — the firelit path — and then wanders off into the darkness and learns things in the deep shadow. The shaman dances in the labyrinth. The storyteller gleefully wanders the tangle. They disappear out there within the occluded mists until it is time to return and record all of what was found there in the maze-knotted channels of the human mind. Those truths must be recorded, then swaddled in layers of lies and imagination and grim whimsy (grimsy!) before finally shared with all those out there so that they too may find ways to leap the guardrails and find their way away from the straight line.

Our stories are best when they are put to paper and made to reflect the bravery and madness of the storyteller, to mirror our Byzantine hearts, to channel the chaos of life and love and all the unexpected and unpredicted things that come along part and parcel.

Our stories are best when they are like the storyteller: when they have gone off-book, off-world, off the goddamn reservation. When they have forgotten their lines and made up better ones, when they have lost the map and found secret passages and unknown caverns.

Don’t be afraid to do different. Don’t be afraid to tell stories the way you want to tell them. With genre or page count or style, with voice or plotline or character, I say hop the rails, I say kick down the walls, I say tear up all that yellow DANGER DO NOT ENTER tape. Be bold. Ride the sharp turns. Gallop down the mountain switchbacks. Tell your stories the way you want. Tell the stories that aren’t married to a safe and previously-established pattern.

Be the shaman in the darkness.

Find your own shape. Seek your own circuitous route.

Escape. Disobey. Rebel.

Fuck the straight line.

I think I blew the joke with the blog title.

What I’m trying to say is —

Since switching from PC-Land to Mac-opolis, I’ve since lost a considerable number of the fonts I’d built up on that old PC. Which is not a huge deal, really — many of them were total pants. Just the same, it has come time, I think, to not so much replenish the same fonts on the Mac but to build a bigger and better army with which I can write profanity and pithy sayings in very big, very pretty letters.

And so, I ask you about font.

What’s your favorite font?

To write in? For titles? For posters or other typographical design work?

Bonus points if it’s a font I can download free or cheap somewhere!

This isn’t just about me replenishing lost fonts, though —

I am genuinely curious which fonts you love and use the most.

FONT ME, BABY.