I live in the sunniest corner of France and it’s also the windiest. There are days when the old folk don’t leave their homes for fear of their buckled bodies being tossed aside like autumn leaves.

The Tramontane wind is this region’s Jackson Pollock, the way it strikes the earth with chaotic, violent lashings of air . Trees bend to snapping point, eerily sleek clouds hover like watchful spacecraft, animals and humans head for shelter. Only the birds stay out.

As I headed home, two vultures - lusty wings stretched wide - soared and plummeted as they challenged the Tramontane’s sovereignty.

When the wind blows, turn the rudder, advises an old Chinese proverb. What better metaphor for the publishing challenge facing indie writers right now?

My rudder is already turning as I adapt to the winds ripping apart the publishing world’s rule book.