By Dave Walsh
The publishing industry is a goddamned mess. The problem is that it’s not alone. Virtually every creative industry has morphed from “pretty bad, but sometimes okay” to “venture capitalists are the vultures picking away at the carcass and you’re the organs” bad. Music, film, television, comics, and yes publishing, are all on a precarious path circling the drain of the proverbial toilet, only some were late comers.
Publishing feels like a latecomer.
Recently, I happened upon a piece in PublishersWeekly, written by a “thought leader” within the publishing space. A business consultant, even. You see, this bastion of the publishing industry believes that OpenAI and other LLM tools can streamline workflows, empower employees, and, of course, automate processes. Or, if you wish to read this uncharitably (you should), this means to minimize the role of humans in the process to increase the return on investment (ROI) for publishers. Fewer people having to sift through slush piles, personalize contracts, or interact with others because of the magic of automation. Publish more books with less work for the actual publishers, and a bigger chance at ROI.
Now look, most of us understand these tools work poorly, take up massive amounts of energy, and are rife with plagiarism and ethical problems. But for the people straddling the bomb, waving their cowboy hats and riding it down into collective oblivion, none of that matters. This is about short-term financial gains for everyone involved without concern for the future.
This is what we’re up against. We’re up against the soulless, money-hungry ghouls who couldn’t care less about the humanity or thought that goes into “the work,” and instead view it merely as a product. It could be, as your econ 101 teacher taught you in college, just widgets we’re talking about. Product doesn’t matter. To these types, this isn’t about human connections, emotions, impressive feats of story crafting or anything else. It’s about moving widgets while lowering the cost per widget, and getting people to pay a premium price per unit.
Again, I’m saying “we” here, because I know if you’re reading Typebar Magazine, there’s probably some part of you that cares about “the work” — be it as an artist or just a reader or lover of all things created by wonderfully troubled people screaming into the abyss hoping to make some sort of human connection that reminds them of that book they read as a child that made them feel hope for the future, or just seen and heard. Whew. Sorry.
There’s no letting go of this “we.” Because without writers putting in the work and creating these products for them, the publishing industry has nothing. They have older works they retain the rights to, sure, but this is an age where we have more options than ever, although traditional publishers have a stranglehold on distribution to the few remaining larger bookstores, libraries and other traditional outlets. Right now, there are plenty of smaller publications that publish short fiction, creative nonfiction, even novellas and novels. Never mind the fact that indie publishing has grown to become a massive industry in its own right, with genres like romance, fantasy, thrillers and the like are able to flourish outside of the gilded gates of the traditional publishing world.
Traditional publishing was the goal of many writers for a long time, and as an indie author, I’ve encountered far too many colleagues who write in extremely popular genres who were scooped up on a trad pub deal only to be disappointed in the end. In some cases, their publisher lost enthusiasm for their work in favor of another, which they deemed more marketable, and whose books were left floundering on shelves or, worse yet, in warehouses never to be seen again. Many of them eventually got frustrated enough to “go indie” and wait for that book’s rights to revert to them. They aren’t alone. This piece in Esquire talks about the debut novel challenges many are facing, where once publishers saw taking on an author as an investment in the future, now it’s a zero-sum game of ROI.
This is forcing authors to seek outside help to gain traction, which isn’t unheard of, but a dangerous game when advances aren’t exactly booming and spending money on a big-time book publicist means taking a huge financial gamble that only the wealthy could tolerate the loss on. And, as this follow-up piece notes, it’s not the fault of the in-house publicists and marketing teams, either. It’s the publishers making unrealistic demands on their teams. This is making publishing even more of a gilded cage, where those with means are gobbling up space on charts and in the hearts and minds of their money-hungry publishers, while those without may be given a ticket to join the show, but it’s a general admission ticket with no view of the actual stage.
One of the persisting values of a traditional publisher has long been shelf space in major retailers. How many big chain bookstores are there now in the United States? One of the biggest markets for books in the world? Oh, right. Barnes & Noble (yes, there are other, smaller chains, but they aren’t in most states). Smaller, independent bookstores live and die by bestsellers that they know will sell and won’t end up taking up shelf space for years, and taking a chance on other books becomes an issue of personal taste and risk. Being traditionally published doesn’t even guarantee shelf space at a Barnes & Noble store, either. Publishers and publicists pitch books to the stores, who make regional decisions about what they do or don’t stock.
A brief but necessary aside: I know what some people out there in the deep abysses of the world are thinking, “publishing’s problems are because of diversity/politics/wokeness” or whatever. Publishing, like many other industries, was dragged kicking and screaming to open its doors to authors of color, different religions, sexual orientations and genders. The only “bad” part about it is that these talented authors were let into the theme park when it was already starting to rot and deteriorate. So please, disavow yourself to any of that nonsense. The individual books or trends happening right now are almost immaterial to this decay. Because the authors who write and release their books aren’t the decision-makers, nor are they the ones doling out which book receives a full marketing push, larger print run, and so on.
Not that writers shouldn’t seek publication from traditional publishers, but that allowing publishers the level of control they currently have is a dangerous path that only leads to ruination, stagnant ideas driven by market research and educated guesses disguised as industry standards. Indie publishing has its own problem by the way of Amazon. Amazon has overtaken the publishing world and many indies feel beholden to the unnatural behemoth, refusing to even bother publishing elsewhere. As in, indies hand all of their power to Amazon, grumble when Amazon does bad things, but do little of material consequence to fix it.
Thus, while traditional publishing has its share of problems, indie publishing is a different side of the same coin. I’ve spent years involved in the grind of indie publishing — publishing fourteen novels over the last five years — and while the onboarding sequence for lots of indie authors involves such addictive, yet onerous phrases such as “no gatekeepers,” “you have control over your own books,” and then my favorite, “a rising tides lifts all boats,” there’s a harsher reality to it. Indie publishing is largely confined within the realm of discounted ebooks. While paperbacks, hardcovers and audiobooks are all well within the reach of an indie, most sales and marketing focus on ebooks. Knowing your market is important, and the readers willing to take a chance on an unfamiliar name usually will do that only at a discounted rate. As someone who’s sold tens of thousands of copies of his books as ebooks and thousands of paperbacks, I can firmly say I’ve outsold friends who’ve traditionally published their novels, although you may know their name and you’ve probably never heard mine (unless it was that Dave Walsh who covered the Lance Armstrong doping scandal).
Indie publishing is a game of numbers and market saturation. As an exercise, you can head over to Amazon’s Kindle books section and literally click through to any of the charts they have there. There’s usually a healthy mix of traditional and indie pubbed books in most popular genres, but the patterns emerge when you look at the genre fiction ones. I’m talking romance, fantasy, science fiction, thrillers and the like. It’s there you’ll see names that are entirely unfamiliar to most readers, and you will see hundreds if not thousands of reviews and ratings for these books, then click on the author’s name and see a page populated with sometimes dozens of titles. Because indie publishing is so competitive and the readers are ravenous readers, the demand warrants a breakneck publishing cycle. Before I hit the brakes and realized I didn’t want to exist as a one-man content farm, my process was to write a novel of about 60,000-80,000 words from conception to final draft in six weeks before I zipped it along to my editor. By then I’d already gotten a cover worked up with my cover designer, written up my blurb (or backmatter, whatever you wish to call it) and started whipping up promotional graphics, marketing swaps with other authors I know, and so on and so forth.
Note, I’m the one who is putting in the time, money and effort into everything here. Each book was a monetary investment, and when I got “serious” in 2019, I actually had to take out a loan for $5,000 to buy covers and editing for the books I had written.
Mind you, this won’t be everyone’s experience, nor will all indie authors see this as a brutal meat grinder. Different strokes. Yet, my point remains the same. For the average writer, this is an unsustainable dead end. If you stop releasing books, those readers are going to move on. If you don’t email them regularly, when you do email them, chances are they’ve moved on to reading someone else and can’t recollect your name. You’re yet another part of the churning ocean that is their reading lives that failed to hold their attention.
Those familiar with online media aren’t in a much better space, either. There’s been what Anil Dash calls a rise in “alt media” in the last few years, in part from platforms like Patreon and Substack allowing creators to connect directly to their audiences, but most of the people who’ve seen success within these realms were people who had bylines at major media outlets prior. We’ve seen these come-and-go, with some holding on but always opening their emails with calls to action to upgrade to paid subscriptions, which in a world where virtually all media we consume is broken down piecemeal into separate subscription platforms, can be overburdening.
Fiction has taken a stab at this model, but it hasn’t seen the same deal of success that non-fiction, news, and pop culture has. Writers like George Saunders have his Substack, which is less about him sharing his fiction and more feels like an uncredited MFA class where paid subscribers can ask questions about the writing craft and publishing industry while learning from one of the masters of modern storytelling. He’s not alone, either. Most fiction authors who go this route end up selling the dream instead of their actual work, because the publishing industry feels so monolithic and impenetrable, if not almost completely random. Snatching up an agent and publisher isn’t on merit, it’s on current market factors. There’s an entire market of floundering creatives who want to be heard, and a seemingly dwindling audience that’s more difficult than ever to reach.
The nonfiction model has become more attractive than ever to creatives, with countless authors moving into this space to offer classes, critiques and conferences, all about imparting wisdom on those in the trenches. Sometimes it feels like it’s merely those who saw the trenches weren’t profitable enough, and that turning to a service “teaching” model is a much greener, more long term oriented pasture than creating art.
That’s where we are right now. Writers remain beholden to the industry, its trends, and the bean counters that sit at the wheel. Working together for a better future is always difficult, will always have bumps in the road, and perhaps feel impossible. Having nothing but uphill battles to fight can be overwhelming, which is why drawing your sword and tilting at the windmills of the publishing industry will never work. Not alone.
I worked in various fields before I settled on publishing, including online media and music, where my work in media took me from smaller gaming blogs to running my own combat sports publication, writing for an EGM web entity, Uproxx, and a few others, and in music I had experience as a recording artist, as well as working as a studio musician and even helping on the production side of things. The music industry’s trajectory is one that feels close to what the publishing industry is on, and it’s happening at a glacial pace that no one seems to be doing much to course correct for. Writers have little power and are hoping just to be heard and given their chance to be published, but what’s the point if the industry is broken? Look at the music industry now. It’s awful. The Spotify CEO was giddy talking about how the cost of creating “content” was “close to zero,” which caused an outrage among musicians. But that’s their business model. Spotify helped destroy that industry by creating an all-you-can-eat buffet. Only the executives are the ones who get paid, not the artists. Musicians are encouraged to just churn out content, drop that next track, pre-save it to your account so you can stream it when it drops!
That format only works for huge artists with millions and billions of listeners. Sure, some may claw their way onto a popular playlist and get some traction and some listeners, but so what? That’s like the trend of authors on TikTok, an app the US gov’t is dead set on nuking from orbit because of… err… privacy concerns? That’s a laugh. The BookTok craze has done wonders for some authors, but chances are, if you weren’t in on the ground level, or aren’t writing books in the right genre, it won’t do a damned thing for you other than suck up your time and leave you exhausted and embarrassed after endless dancing on camera didn’t move a single copy.
Don’t rely on that. Don’t rely on yourself. You aren’t an island.
You just have to build something new.
No, not just you. That’s a part of the problem, right? Because we’ve been trained to think like that. That if there’s a problem, “you” need to solve it. The singular you. The reality is that we need to fix it. That’s right. We. Us. All of us.
Make friends. Help each other. Encourage your friends. If you have ins with publishers, agents and the like, make it known you have friends worth fighting for. Make it known you have ideas that feel like “hard sells” that you believe in. Work together. If you indie publish, don’t just indie publish and exist in a vacuum. Form a collective that supports each other. Maybe someone is a better editor, or designer, or is better at dealing with the backend stuff or formatting. Raise each other up beyond social media boosts. Tell your friends who aren’t in the industry about the incredible book you just read for someone. If you have a great group of friends who write fiction, publish a collection featuring each other. Co-author with each other. Don’t be afraid to experiment and release work you’re proud of.
You need to trust me on this. In the realm of indie authors especially, there’s a push to “write to market” otherwise be swallowed up whole. Yet, there’s little wiggle room and just as many shackles as there are elsewhere. You can’t release books in a popular genre with your own flourishes and attempt to steer an audience towards something that feels more authentic to you. Write things you love and are proud of. Find people who love the things you do and work together. Release what you love if you can’t find a publisher. Raise each other up. Create communities that billionaires can’t sweep away on a whim. It’ll all be hard and there’s no roadmap, but the silver lining amidst the industry’s stormclouds is we get to build something new from scratch.
The world of short fiction, for example, always feels like it’s outrunning the digital grim reaper. Independent publications like Apex Magazine, Flaming Hydra, Seize the Press, Small Wonders, Skull & Laurel, Wyrd Science Magazine, Rascal, and many others have taken a more community-oriented approach in building their readership through crowdfunding, Patreon, or cooperative ownership models. All of that while legacy publications have struggled with subscriber retention and adjusting to the turbulent world of new media. Building spaces where writers and readers can converge and support publications directly has, at least for the time being, created a slew of fresh new creative outlets.
Those small, little things you can do to get the ball rolling may feel insignificant in the face of an endless array of challenges in an ever-shifting world looking to automate you out of existence, but what other options do you have? Do you roll over and hope that in the process of being steamrolled, they toss you a bone? Nothing changes until we do.
I don’t know about you, but I became a writer not to make products and work myself to the verge of constant mental breakdowns to survive, but to make art. After years of working in some form of publishing or another, it’s become abundantly clear it’s not just going to get better. That publishers releasing occasional brilliant work by fresh voices isn’t enough. There needs to be more, and we need to hold these people accountable while holding each other up. I can’t come up with the answers alone, nor should anyone want that. It’s always gotta be many of us, together.
The revolution needs to be writers realizing our collective value as artists and the role we play in the world. Art can come in many forms, from transformational, mind-bending work to more commercial comfort food work. However you can express yourself, it doesn’t really matter. What’s clear is there needs to be a “we” here, and we need to build the world we want instead of lamenting the hand we’ve been dealt.
So, if you’re an author and the publishing industry as it exists now works for you, congratulations. Seriously. It’s tough out there and that’s something to be proud of. If you can find a way to help others that isn’t immediately profitable for you, know how valuable that is. If you’re someone that the publishing world—both traditional and indie—is not friendly towards, know the only way to help build a world we can all fit into is making sure your voice is heard and your work is available to audiences. Does that mean finding a small press or even indie publishing for you? Go for it. Together, we can forge ahead and make something different. Without your work, this industry can’t evolve and readers won’t know what they’re missing. 
Dave Walsh resides in the high desert in New Mexico, a former combat sports and entertainment writer who focuses on the surreal instead now. Author of the Trystero and Andlios series and member of SFWA. Find him at dvewlsh.com and everywhere else as @dvewlsh.