It was always my intention to have a print version of An Uncollected Death. In fact, I wanted a print version more than just about anything else in the world after good health, etc. It took a while to get the manuscript re-edited and for Steve to lay out in Create Space, then re-lay out (twice, in fact, because I was obsessed), and then we waited for the proof copy to come, which was supposed to take about ten days.
It arrived in five. I was sitting here at my desk, working on the next book, when Steve came in with something behind his back and saying something along the lines of, “I think you’re gonna like what came in the mail just now.” I grabbed the package and actually started whimpering and hyperventilating as I opened it, and was almost overcome when I laid eyes on the cover, the pages, the feel, the thickness, the whole really real-ness of my first book in print.
Are you like me? Have you done something that you used to dream about as a little kid, back in the days when you’d imagine what you’d like to be when you “grew up?” Was it everything–or more–than you thought it would be?
Look, I know that there’s a difference between going ahead and publishing your work yourself and having it published by the Big Five, particularly in the cachet, the tradition, the validation. It’s a path I was on for the first ten years out of college. Back then, I wrote and produced three plays, wrote hundreds of poems and published a handful, wrote and published several short stories, a couple of essays, and even the sundry academic paper, along with three drafts of a mystery novel.
It was a path I had to leave, however, when divorce meant having to do something that actually earned an income, and earned it now. I still wrote, couldn’t stop, but it was in fits and starts, lots of journals, lots of NaNoWriMo, and various newsletters and blogs. Knowing all too well the no-pay, time-consuming drag of query letters and contributor’s copies, I didn’t even bother to try to get anything published.
Then came digital publishing, right about the time I ran out of income-producing options, and I went back to doing what I had intended to do all along, at least in a modest way. Like myself, more and more writers are questioning the necessity of going through the traditional publishing route. It can take years to shop around a book and get it published–if it happens at all, making the process a huge gamble for older writers or any writer with a limited amount of time and funds set aside for the purpose of establishing a writing career.
I have no idea, of course, if my novel series will ever do well enough to keep me in tea and sweaters. This new world of publishing and marketing options is evolving rapidly, and I’m learning more and more about it every day. Just as in traditional publishing, a great deal of luck is involved. But there’s one thing I’m convinced of: the self-published book doesn’t preclude traditional publishing; rather, I think it serves as proof of a writer’s ability to come up with a finished, edited product. Seems to me this is a win-win for everyone: the writer, the prospective publisher, and especially the reader.
What better luck, though, than to have lived long enough to be a writer in this new world of publishing–I actually have a book I can hold, that can go on the shelf in the local library, that can be read in book clubs, that can be purchased in the world’s biggest bookstore, that can be wrapped up and placed in someone’s hand, a book that can leave a bruise if I threw it at you (as if), a book that needs my old bunny rabbit bookmark, a book just like the ones I like to curl up with and read. It’s really real.