Indie by nature

In which I get sucked into a desert vortex and vow I'm done playing by the rules

A couple of weekends ago, on a trip to Sedona with my two high school best friends, I had an epiphany about what I want my publishing journey to look like.

I’ve written a lot here about my writing practice, but not much about the other side of the coin: getting my work into the world. After a few years of learning everything I could about publishing, I’ve taken away two big realizations. First: “it’s tough out there, baby” if you’re trying to catch the brass ring of a scoring a literary agent and a Big 5 deal. Second: there have never been more options for taking matters into your own hands.

Maybe I got sucked into one of Sedona’s vortexes. Maybe I was in that rare and magical headspace of feeling wholeheartedly supported by people who love and believe in me. Or maybe ideas I’d been turning over for months finally snapped together. When the epiphany landed, it couldn’t have been clearer:

I’m done waiting for permission.

No more waiting

I spent a couple of years, off and on, querying agents for my debut novel The Pearl Farmers. I got a lot of interest but no takers. Then I found She Writes Press — an alternative model in which, if you have a fabulous manuscript and are willing to share some of the financial risk, a team of publishing experts gives you the full-service publishing experience without requiring you to woo an agent first.

As I was sealing that deal, I was finishing writing my second book, a mystery. I’d been flirting with going indie for this planned detective series, but decided to give agent querying one more shot.

Then I had my moment of clarity in Sedona. And I asked myself: what do I really want out of all of this?

In the book community, there’s so much talk about how to land a literary agent. Courses. Books. Workshops. Consultants who’ll critique your queries. Agents on social media explaining why none of us are landing agents. In my Instagram feed, “landing an agent” has started to feel like “losing 20 pounds” did a few years ago: the consumer desire that advertisers assume is eating me up inside, and that everyone’s promising to fix with their unique, clever, and costly programs. Never mind that it was a goal I was never going to achieve in spite of all that money spent.

None of this is a diss on literary agents or traditionally published authors. It’s just that — like the shedding of 20 pounds — I’ve decided landing one is something I no longer want to waste my time and energy on.

Traditional publishing is brutal right now. Agents are drowning in submissions. Publishers aren’t buying. Editors are getting laid off. Any book I’m pitching has to survive the AI inbox screen, fit the ultra-specific hole in an agent’s list, and land in front of the right person at exactly the right moment. It feels a little like playing the Mega Millions lottery.

And then there are the rules. Don’t mention in your query that you’re writing a series — agents hate that. Your comp titles have to be from the last three years or you look out of touch. Agents publish their “manuscript wishlists” with insanely specific wishes. (One MSWL I saw recently listed a desire for stories about “BIPOC vampires.” I’m not writing anything close to what that agent’s repping.)

When I started questioning why I was jumping through all these hoops just to pay someone 15% of my royalties, the answer got uncomfortable: turns out, I’ve been chasing traditional publishing for validation. I’ve been refusing to call myself a “real author” because the old-guard gatekeepers haven’t officially let me through.

But I no longer require validation. I’m publishing a book. I’ve won a prize. People read and love my stories.

Screw the gatekeeping, and screw the subliminal message that we haven’t “made it” until the old guard says so.

DIY or die

In February, the Counter Craft Substack published a brilliant piece called “Why Literature Needs a Punk Rock Mindset.” Prompted by the death of the Washington Post‘s literature section and all the publishing upheaval I just described, author Lincoln Michel issued a call to arms:

What I wanted to suggest today is that we who care about literature need to adopt a punk rock mindset. It is DIY or die. We have to do this ourselves. We need to build our networks, fund what we can if we have the resources, and steal what we can from institutions while we can, knowing those resources will always be ephemeral.

He was talking about promoting books now that traditional media is fading. But I heard it as a battle cry for my entire writing venture. Stop waiting for someone to lift the gate. Build the path yourself.

So, what do I actually want? I’m not publishing to get rich, or to end up on a Target checkout stand. I’m publishing because I love writing and I’m creating stories I believe will entertain and resonate with some people. I’d love to build a business around finding those people and making stories for them. Someday I’d like this to be my only job — but until then, it’s a channel for creativity and passion, and that’s enough.

My epiphany reminded me that I’m indie by nature. I’m neurodivergent. I’m an entrepreneur who founded and ran a company and is always happiest building something new. And I’m a motherfucking Gen X woman in that glorious phase of life where external validation and people-pleasing have lost their hold on me.

I’m inspired by this quote from an interview with Michelle Zauner — Japanese Breakfast — in The Creative Independent. She’s a superstar musician and bestselling author now, but she started where a lot of us start: doing it herself when the institutions wouldn’t let her in.

I think part of it is with DIY you have literally nothing and your spirit and ambition and resourcefulness just finds a way to make it work. Venues won’t book you? Rent a generator and stage a show under a bridge and text all the punks you know. Booking agents won’t give you the time of day? Book yourself a tour across the country using Bandcamp to find bands in every city and pay it forward when they come to yours.

I’m not entirely sure yet what my path forward looks like for the next books. But I know I’m going to find a way to get them into the world — on my timeline, by my own rules— and in front of the people who want to read them, with the support of my amazing writing and friend community. Embracing that certainty has given me a huge boost of energy and optimism to start planning what comes next.