Midnight, eight years ago: the moonlight poured in through the windows of my earthship house. The manuscript of my novel The Dandelion Insurrection was sitting at dead halt on the desk. The clock ticked and tocked in annoying tyranny. My characters were in trouble. I’d posited a hidden corporate dictatorship in a fictional United States “just around the corner of today”. My plucky activists had launched their bold little rebellion. But now, they – I – had a problem: how was I going to get them out of that mess?

I was a young activist, midwifed into action by the glorious madness that was ...


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