There are reasons I am a writer. Becoming one was a bit of an accident. Being one, though, that’s something I work at. I put in the time. I grind. I want people to read my words, because I have things to say.
So having my first book, a novella that encapsulates so many of my recurring themes, accepted by an indie publisher? The dream. Atthis Arts told me it would be special, that it would shine.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m a realist. This book was never going to earn me millions, never going to be my Nobel-winning tome. But it felt like a step towards an agent, maybe? Towards a bit of an income, doing something that I enjoy, that I’m good at? Towards something that might even become a career? (Yes, I know that’s all a pipe dream, but let a girl have it.)
It all sounds great. Until you find out that
It’s been two weeks since my book launched. In that time, it has sold about 60 copies. Probably most of these are to friends and family, but it was starting to wiggle its way into the hands of strangers. And, overwhelmingly, people liked it. Actually, they really liked it. (Except for that one guy who really, really hated it. But I think he was having a day, and maybe he just needed a hug.)
But things have ground to a screeching halt. I can’t do any more marketing, at least not in the channels where I have cultivated friendships or have professional relationships. All the work that I put in pre-launch and since, it has hit a hard stop, because
In the grand scheme of things, authors have little to no power.
We have our words, and if we’re very lucky, some people will ingest them. Maybe they’ll even pay for them, but often not (see, for example, this here post). Content creators create content, and they keep on creating. But once they’ve done that, they’re often expected to sit back and be quiet as the power players enter the room. Sign the contract, accept the edits, agree to the artwork, do the promos and the interviews and the launch events. It’s not why we write, but here we are, saying ‘yes’ to it all, in the hopes that people will read our words.
Or, the alternative: you can go it alone. Self-publish, build yourself as a brand, learn every piece of the industry, forever wonder if the raised eyebrow is ‘impressed face’ or ‘contempt face.’
So, ok, we jump through the hoops. I jump through the hoops. And mostly it’s fine. We all get that it’s a slog, that we’re treadmilling our way through the noise and chaos and whatever new bullshit the techbros are going to lob our way to disrupt perfectly good art. We get that the cards are stacked against us. We do what we have to, because we have things to say.
But people with power need to recognise their power. When they don’t, creators end up saying things like
It’s been two weeks since my novella was released, and the actions of my publisher, and the online response this has generated, have made it impossible for me to market my book. From what I can tell, the whole project has tanked.
It’s not down to a lack of trying. For the past few months, I’ve put in up to two extra work hours a day of marketing. Of learning to do marketing, a skill I do not have, and never wanted to have. I’m a writer and a weirdo and a behind-the-screen sorta gal. I don’t do marketing. That’s a pro’s job. Recently, I’ve learnt more about it than I ever wanted to. I’ve followed a roadmap, reached out to everyone, everywhere that I could. To the dozens of magazines that have published my short stories. To everyone I know who has a platform, a digital voice, a reading group. To all the mid-range bookstatokkers who looked even close to relevant. But, I have no history in this field. No legacy contacts, no way to signal boost beyond the people I already know.
Maybe it would have paid off. It’s slow going, and a hard slog, but generally people have been receptive and supportive. People like the book. That’s pretty cool.
I knew in advance that marketing through the publisher would be thin on the ground. But, tbh, it never occurred to me that ‘no marketing budget’ would translate into ‘never earn out of your advance.’ That it meant abandon hope all ye who, etc etc. That it meant a handful of shout-outs on Bluesky, and otherwise nothing in particular to celebrate the release or push sales.
(And, side quest, if I’m being perfectly honest here, I don’t really understand how publishing houses expect to earn enough money to support themselves and their authors if they don’t sell the products. I mean, club together and co-hire a marketing expert to develop a generic roadmap, so you can all hit some targets. Get a hungry intern or something.)
Although I reconciled myself to the fact that I’d be the one driving the marketing, it felt lonely and frustrating. But, I keep grinding away, until
The social platform where I’m most active explodes in outrage, and everything I’ve been working on grinds to a halt. I’m drawn into a pit of dread. A web of whispers and rapid backstage networking, the dawning realisation that I may have walked myself right into a net of unhinged accusations and coercive control. I don’t sleep for days. I worry that the next wave of discourse is going to drag me down, down.
By this point, I’ve put in nearly 100 hours of marketing on top of my normal life & jobs, doing the grifting that small imprints seem to have some sort of moral aversion to. Instead of meeting that effort, instead of elevating it, instead of selling me and my book so that a small indie press can make some medium bucks, my publisher goes ahead and picks fights with all the people who might have supported them, supported me. And, predictably, folk on the major platforms for spec fic writers – Bluesky/Discord/Codex – go apeshit. Clearly, I’m not the only one with big feels.
A few years ago, I accidentally went viral when I reported that a lit mag threatened to sue me for withdrawing a story before it was published, before they had even signed the contract. Sadly, it was over on Twitter, where I don’t exist anymore (the magazine was Five South, btw, and straight up don’t engage with them is all I can recommend). And you know what? It sucked. I didn’t like it at all. It was all so noisy and ridiculous. But at least that event didn’t damage my credibility as a writer, or my potential book sales.
The people I’ve talked to about this current palaver say that no one will hold one bad actor’s actions against me. That this won’t damage my reputation.
But I don’t think that’s entirely accurate. It’s not enough to pat someone on the shoulder and tell it’s not their responsibility to deal with the blowback. Clearly, I didn’t do the due diligence. There are questions I didn’t ask. I didn’t realise that I was signing with a publisher that enacted collision courses in retrograde. I didn’t know I was putting myself in harm’s way, or that I was potentially propping up unhealthy practices. And, moving forward, I won’t be able to show glowing sales reports to potential representation, because there won’t be any sales to show. I come out looking a fool, and
It’s been two weeks since my book was released and I’m torn about my loyalties. To those who have been hurt. To those who picked me and my story out of a pile. To myself and my art.
I feel sad, because I actually don’t want to lose a publishing house. I don’t want anyone to be chased out of town. I don’t want to lose a press that has produced such good work over such a long time, and which has attracted such strong writers. I wouldn’t want to lose pretty much any press, even if it hadn’t put out such cool books (excepting, obviously, actual nazi publishers. Or those AI tosspots.). We need more, not fewer, indie publishers. Fewer publishers means more competition between us authors. That’s not a good thing, when we’re already jostling for space.
There are those on either side of this shitstorm, and that’s not me. Remember, though, that there are some of us caught in the middle, we’re being slammed by two different fronts – by a negligent publisher who preferentially lashes out at people rather than focusing on promoting sellable content, and entangles private and public life; and by the people who are annoyed, angry, or who have been previously harmed, who are suggesting withdrawing rights and calling for an injunction against any money going towards the press, because it will go to the people who hurt them.
For the authors, that means no love and no money.
Although I might be a writer, I never wanted to say any of this. Except that
Being drawn into a fight not of your making, being no-fault blacklisted, being pressured into choosing a side, it’s Kafkaesque. Old school dystopia. Even I couldn’t make this up (although, you can bank on it appearing in some story at a later date).
I’m well aware that I’m new to the scene. That other people have been wading through this swamp for years. And, yes, I know I’ve centred myself in a story where I’m not that important. Other people have talked about the history, the bigger picture. I want to share the frustration of what happens when you’re at the margins of a whirlpool which you’re being dragged into against your will. I didn’t agree to any of this. I just wanted to sell my (first, very good) book.
When I’m feeling calm, I can say: it’s a shame, really. That we can choose to be the adults in the room, choose to behave professionally, choose to enact care. We can be boundaried, and open, and honest, and accountable. But none of that has happened here, and I’m not feeling calm.
Instead, we’ve got a digital slugout, a dumpsterfire that keeps on burning. And the people it’s really burning? The authors. The content creators, those who pretty much don’t get paid anyway, particularly if no one buys their books and who end up spending their time writing essays like this one.
I do think we need to call out coercion and manufactured tribalism.
I do think we need to recognise the impact of raining hellfire on a market.
And, above all, I think we need to inspect how those with power wield it. Including the power we hold ourselves.
So, look, I’ll just wrap up by saying
It’s been two weeks since my first book came out, and I’ve spent more time crying than celebrating.