The Perils of Small Presses: A Cautionary Tale

It began, as most ruminations on the fragility of life do, with a broken bookcase. Okay, maybe not *broken*, exactly, but sagging under the weight of literary ambition like a weary Atlas. As I shifted stacks of novels, their spines creased and pages turning brittle with age, my gaze fell upon a particularly sorry sight: a dozen copies of my own book, “Washing Amethysts in the Bidet,” their once-vibrant covers dulled by dust and neglect.

A wave of melancholy washed over me, and it wasn’t just the lingering scent of furniture polish. This wasn’t just about a few dinged-up paperbacks; it was a tangible manifestation of a publishing journey gone awry. You see, “Washing Amethysts” was supposed to be different. It was a quirky, heartfelt novel about a middle-aged woman who, well, let’s just say she finds solace in unconventional ways. The writing process had been a joy, and early feedback was overwhelmingly positive. But thanks to a series of unfortunate events (and a few questionable decisions on the part of my publisher), the book’s price tag ended up higher than a giraffe’s kneecaps, effectively killing its chances of finding a wide audience.

This experience, coupled with the sobering sight of those forlorn copies in my crumbling bookcase, got me thinking: What went wrong? And more importantly, what does my story say about the treacherous, ever-changing landscape of the publishing world, particularly for authors like myself who find ourselves navigating the choppy waters of small presses?

From Literary Darlings to Industry Afterthoughts?

Rewind a couple of decades (or maybe just one, depending on how generous I’m feeling about my age), and the picture was quite different. Back then, I was a literary darling, albeit a low-key one. I had a couple of well-received novels under my belt, published by big-name houses that treated me like a prized poodle at a dog show – all fluffy praise and gourmet treats (or at least, decent advances and the occasional glass of lukewarm Chardonnay at book launches).

Then, something strange happened. I hit the big – wait for it – . Suddenly, those once-receptive doors seemed to be closing. My manuscripts, once met with enthusiastic nods and cries of “We need this voice!”, were now being returned with polite but firm rejections. Was it the audacity of aging in an industry obsessed with youth? Or perhaps my writing had taken a nosedive into the abyss of mediocrity? Either way, it was clear that the traditional publishing world, at least as I knew it, was no longer a reliable dance partner.

So, like many authors in my position, I found myself at a crossroads, faced with two diverging paths: the wild west of self-publishing, or the alluring, yet often perilous, realm of small presses.

The DIY Route: Empowering, Yet Perilous

Now, don’t get me wrong, self-publishing has come a long way since the days of vanity presses and stapled-together manuscripts sold out of the trunks of cars (although, I gotta admit, there’s a certain DIY charm to that image). Platforms like Amazon have made it easier than ever for authors to get their work out there, bypassing the gatekeepers and retaining complete creative control.

However, let’s not sugarcoat it – self-publishing still carries a bit of a stigma. It’s like the awkward stepchild at a family reunion, tolerated but not quite embraced. Literary prizes? Forget about it. And while you have the freedom to set your own price (a definite plus), you also shoulder the entire burden of marketing and promotion, which, let me tell you, can be about as enjoyable as a root canal performed by a badger.