The Self Who Came In From the Cold

Self Publishing and the Future of the Novel

WHEN A NOVEL is reviewed in Book World in The Washington Post, it typically features a full-sized image of the cover, followed a few paragraphs later by a prominent photo of the author. Invariably, the publisher or imprint’s name is also found beneath the cover image. To a reader, none of this is surprising and will likely be passed over with little interest. But these items are emblematic of something important, I think, for authors and book readers alike. Let us begin with the fine print.

Book World’s signaling of the publisher harks back to the old days of the music industry, when artists were considered to have “made it” based solely on which record label they signed with—regardless of the exploitative contracts they were often forced into. While musicians are no longer held to a label standard, due partly to the evolution of the digital format, such a regime is still very much alive in the book publishing world.

For novelists, if you are not “published,” then you are “self published”—with the only possible explanation for the latter being your work is minor league. The prevailing belief holds that most traditionally published books are well-crafted, with a few exceptions, while most indie-published books are considered slipshod—save for the rare standout that proves the rule. Yet this view does not accord with the fact that more than a third of all novels read today are self published, with ebook buyers notably unconcerned with who published what. Perhaps it is not just that some authors do not count in the eyes of traditional publishers, but that certain readers don’t either.

Given that Amazon’s Jeff Bezos owns The Washington Post, one might think Book World would be a welcoming space for indie authors. Not at all. The Post goes out of its way to uphold the status quo of the major publishing houses, keeping the literary and commercial achievements of indie authors hidden from their readers. The paper enforces a longstanding “No Self Published” rule, which it justifies as a commitment to “quality” through traditional editorial oversight.

While quality has historically been a concern with self-published titles, to assume this is a static affair ignores the industry’s rapid evolution since the advent of the Kindle and Amazon’s Kindle Direct Publishing (KDP). The use of developmental editors, copy editors, and proofreaders is commonplace, and AI editing tools are also helping elevate the writing to a high standard. To suggest that a professional product cannot be achieved without traditional editorial oversight smacks again of the arrogant old days when the recording label reigned supreme.

The Post's rationale is absurd, in any case, as the editorial rule could simply require self-published books to prove themselves in the marketplace before being eligible for review. This aligns with what Dan Sinykin, author of Big Fiction, envisioned when he wrote, “We might think about self-publishing, fan fiction, and Wattpad as R&D laboratories or farm teams where ideas or players are tested to see if they’re ready for the market.” The difference between an absolute standard and merely a higher threshold is significant: under the former, self-published titles remain walled off, regardless of their potential interest to readers—a de facto form of censorship. Even The Post’s longtime Book World editor, Ron Charles, concedes that many traditionally published books are best described as “bad.”

Many metrics can be used to compare a career as an indie versus trad author, but it is clear that, with the possible exception of highly literary fiction, an aspiring novelist committed to making a living today is better off bypassing the traditional route—or at least going indie first to prove their work’s commercial viability. Genres like sci-fi, fantasy, romance, thrillers, mystery, horror, and YA are either dominated by indie authors or have indie-led subgenres that drive reader demand. Competition is high, regardless, but it is estimated that well over 1,000 self-published authors now make $100,000 or more yearly via sales on Amazon alone. This reversal of the traditional “making it” narrative holds significant weight, especially given how terms like “self published” and “vanity publishing” continue to be used to shun the indie route. Choosing to be independent as a novelist today is like a teenage girl in a fundamentalist Christian household announcing her intention to have an abortion.

I recall an account from a self-publishing podcast where the author’s spouse told a friend of her husband’s recent success. The two were invited to a celebratory dinner, and when talk turned to his accomplishment, the male host asked, “So, who’s the publisher?” Without missing a beat, the author replied that the novel was self-published. Dessert was quietly skipped, making it clear that the commercial success itself was not what mattered—it was the prestige conferred by gaining membership in an elite club. In the hosts’ eyes, the author had taken a shortcut, and being a pretender was nothing to celebrate.

Bestselling indie author Hugh Howey captured this vanity-driven preoccupation when recounting a meeting in which he turned down a seven-figure deal that amounted to boilerplate bondage. The editor, clearly flabbergasted at being rejected, responded, “But wouldn’t you love to say you’re with Random House?” (Howey later signed a print-only deal with Simon & Schuster, retaining his rights beyond a few years.)

The mechanisms undercutting the disruptive influence of indie publishing can be subtle, but their impact is not. Consider the rarely acknowledged yet telling fact, reflected in the purpose of Hugh Howey's meeting, that independent bookstores generally do not sell print books by indie authors. Why is independence celebrated in bookstores but scorned in authors? In most other domains, independent artists are embraced in traditional media, yet indie authors of the same ilk remain ignored. Consider the alignment between the industry and the mainstream press, then follow the money, and the reasons become clear.

A second impact of marginalization borders on the insensitive, and here we begin to include the role of literary agents in this system of exclusion and exclusivity. This has to do with how the mark of illegitimacy keeps new and promising authors from discovering the possibilities of independent publishing, where the long-term opportunities can far exceed those offered by traditional presses, with their exploitative “standard” contracts. An aspiring novelist might spend years with an agent shopping around one or several manuscripts, only to be told to give up in the end because the work is "not a good fit" in the marketplace. Often, this bombshell lands after untold amounts have been spent on everything from freelance editors to beta readers to even an MFA in Creative Writing. But that is not the real issue. What’s concerning is how, even after years of waiting in a writer's purgatory, the author is kept ignorant of the legitimate alternative presented by self publishing.

You might think telling authors to go indie is not in a literary agent’s best interests, and many agents likely feel the same. However, agents can profit when successful indie authors go hybrid by signing traditional deals—usually after publishers, who initially rejected their books, hurry back to cash in on a belated success. Subsidiary rights can also offer a substantial windfall. The real issue for agents is that, unless they are powerhouses in their own right, they are beholden to the big houses—not to authors. An agent cannot represent anyone if they have burned their bridges, with no one left to represent to.

Whatever the case, signing with an agent should be explicitly presented today as a choice—a choice between two alternative paths to reaching readers. The fact that it is not makes it clear that authors are not making fully informed decisions. A door is not a door when it remains hidden, or is covered in filth.

Having spent years with unpublished novels in indefinite industry limbo, I know how frustrating and draining the traditional rabbit hole can be—not just for one's aspirations but also for one's mental health. Like many others, and despite having several nonfiction titles traditionally published, I remained unaware of the legitimacy of indie publishing among book readers, a subject my agent never broached. When I embraced the indie community, I realized that my novels—time sensitive in their themes—could reach readers a year or two earlier than if pursued traditionally. This revelation highlighted how needless my anxious wait with old-school publishing had been.

And yet, even now, I cannot say I have fully cleansed myself of the superficial desire to be “published.” This underscores an irony that comes with veering off the traditional path: capitalizing on indie publishing’s potential is unlikely to satisfy one’s longing for authorial fame. Reaching readers and making a living is not enough—one also craves recognition. And therein lies the epiphany: as indie publishing grows ever larger, traditional publishing reveals itself, more than ever, as vanity publishing.

As getting “published” becomes more a vain quest for membership in an elite club than a business decision, a question arises: is the culture that encourages potential writers to pursue the novel craft being undermined?

When publishing becomes primarily about public status rather than literary contribution, we risk losing the very ecosystem that nurtures serious writers and writing. Just as we question who enters politics today—and why—we might ask who will be the writers of tomorrow, and what will motivate them? Traditional publishing, which once took on the responsibility of safeguarding the novel's future, now fails at nearly every step.

My fraught years while represented by a dedicated literary agent remind me of Kafka’s parable in The Trial, "Before the Law.” Near the end, a priest tells Josef K. a story about a man who seeks entry to the law, expecting it to be accessible to all. The gatekeeper tells him entry is not presently possible, but the man, determined, chooses to wait. Years pass, and the man grows old, exhausting his resources in an effort to understand the system that has, unexpectedly, come to consume his life. Upon dying, he asks for clarification of why nobody else has ever sought entry—and the man gets his answer. "No one else could ever be admitted here, since this gate was made only for you. I am now going to shut it."

There is, of course, an alternative ending to this parable about opaque bureaucracy, which is when the author actually beats the devil and gains entry into the law. But as Kafka had foreseen, this success is often a hollow victory. Each gate is followed by another, each guarded by an even fiercer gatekeeper. Which is to say, being traditionally published can often be, not the beginning of a writing career, but the end—the gate shutting, as it were, behind rather than before you.

Publishers frequently invest in debut authors with high hopes for that unicorn book, with advances intended to nurture—or even manufacture—a commercial result. Yet, when these aspirations are not met, often through no fault of the novel or novelist, the disappointing and disappointed writer can find themselves in an even more precarious position: beyond the first gate but with no path forward or back. The tragedy for the debut author lies in what happens next. Trapped between success and failure, the bewildered writer becomes ensnared in a paralyzing limbo. Unaware of a possible way out—namely, through the indie route—they are trapped in an illusion, or what Hugh Howey has referred to as the industry’s “reality distortion field.”

Several forces fuel this post-publication nightmare. One is that the industry has grown increasingly risk-averse—once bitten, twice shy. While pouring money into celebrity authors, doubling down on blockbuster franchises tied to dusty or deceased authors, and indulging in reckless seven-figure auction bids, little remains for nurturing new voices by funding second chances. This lack of sustained investment partly explains why growth in the indie publishing space dramatically outpaces an otherwise stagnant market—as indie authors fill the gaps left by the internal erosion within the big five.

In self publishing, readers themselves act as the gatekeepers—a more democratic result. Yet even this portrayal understates the possibilities, as indie publishing has always operated in the shadow of major houses that seek to discredit it. If the Big Five were to disappear, an entirely new world of fiction and novel publishing could emerge. Imagine authors no longer subsidizing Manhattan rents and daily two-hour lunches! More importantly, consider the prospect of true editorial freedom. Though traditional publishing claims to cherish new voices, most aspiring novelists write with self-imposed guardrails, their growth as artists constrained—consciously and unconsciously—by the rigid demands of the marketplace. When the novel is viewed as an art form, the notion of a herding industry seems rightly offensive.

If the prospect of a more collaborative, less custodial industry feels laughingly implausible, consider traditional publishing’s track record as an arbiter of “the good”—its primary raison d’être. I will not belabor the point by listing every now-iconic author initially ignored by the industry; suffice it to say that the track record is poor—and we will never know how many thousands of literary talents were rejected at the gate otherwise known as the query stage.

Of course, indie publishing has its challenges, from managing the demands of being a publisher to facing financial pressure (in favor of prioritizing output) to a lack of opportunity for objective quality assessment. The mantra of self-publishing is, after all, "keep writing, then write some more." Yet what it offers in exchange is substantial: an egalitarian writing life largely independent of tastemakers. This independence includes access to a community of author-entrepreneurs, direct connections with readers, significantly higher royalties, creative control, flexibility in pacing and output, ownership of one's IP, and freedom from the arbitrary demands of a fenced-off and self-reinforcing marketplace. When Dan Sinykin was asked to give advice to new writers, he said, "Find your people." To my dismay, he was not referring to readers—he meant book editors and authors the writer admires. Welcome to the club.

Meanwhile, traditional publishing seems intent on cementing its role as the self-appointed kingmaker. On one side, we see the rise of celebrity book clubs operating on a winner-take-all basis, books ghostwritten for celebrities, “authors” famous for everything but writing, and books that serve only one purpose: bolstering the bottom line. On the other, we witness the steady decline of mainstream book coverage, the shrinking presence of brick-and-mortar stores, the demands of the short-attention economy, and the resulting homogenization of the novel. In this landscape, novels seem to serve a purpose other than providing a slow, contemplative pastime—something superfluous, perhaps even more detrimental than nourishing to the broader culture.

As traditionally-published authors increasingly surrender their lives to the cult of influence, they are no longer merely invited to join the circus—they are expected to run it. A final irony emerges: reflected in the staged author photos that Book World insists on parading before us, and in the covers we are shown but told never to judge a book by, traditional publishing has given new meaning to the idea of self publishing.