Anyone who knows me well will hardly be surprised to hear I rarely read anything light. When I burn myself out (which admittedly is often), I read nonfiction and kids’ books. But when I read fiction, I want it to be big. I mean Les Miserables big. I want a hidden meaning beneath every word. So after reading rave reviews for the obscure little titles of The Fiddler’s Gun and its sequel, Fiddler’s Green, I bought them. Mostly because they were published by the Rabbit Room, a writing community to whom I will someday contribute. (The Rabbit Room is currently unaware of this.) But anyway I stole the name of this blog from one of their books so the least I can do is give them some money. In the first pages of The Fiddler’s Gun, I was a little bit unconvinced of this proclaimed greatness. My love for The Rabbit Room aside, it is an independent publishing platform. The creators of The Rabbit Room exclusively edit and publish their own works. Also, it was written by A.S. Peterson, a then-u