Like other wordsmiths with novelist aspirations, I harbored dreams of gaining the interest of literary publishers: HarperCollins; Little Brown and Co.; Farrar, Straus and Giroux. In my wildest pipe dreams, I visualized six-figure advances and two-book contracts. And I’d always considered self-publishing — especially self-publishing a novel — a self-indulgent deus ex machina for losers.
These days, as publishing morphs into 21st century formats, I’m re-evaluating my point of view. I now shun the phrase “vanity press” in favor of “independent publisher.” My denouement came only after decades of conflicts with literati: critical editors, ambitious agents, cynical publishers.
The official release date of “Glass Halo” was Wednesday. In addition to taking far longer to publish than I had anticipated, there was no contract. No advance. In fact, my first novel has cost me many pretty pennies. I am, you see, self- . . . I mean, independently published.
About a year ago, to bring my novel to press and to market, I launched Friday Jones Publishing, named after my beloved, late, three-legged dog. As chief executive dreamer of Friday Jones Publishing, I can wholeheartedly relate to a three-legged underdog. In terms of story arc, Friday Jones Publishing’s tale follows fairly closely the epic plot of The Little Red Hen meets The Little Engine That Could.
So far, I’m not feeling like a loser. In fact, independently publishing my novel granted me opportunities to make winning choices in many crucial matters that would have remained out of my authorial hands had I gone the commercial publishing route.
For one thing, I maintained not only all rights, but also creative control. Over the years, working with editors, agents and publishers, I roller-coastered dozens of times from high hopes to low self-esteem. I revised and re-revised my manuscript, often against my better judgment. I made some drastic changes to the plot of “Glass Halo.” Almost everybody in the industry agreed that my opus sparkled. But almost everybody insisted that what it lacked was sex.
Surprise, surprise.
For years, I held out, insisting that my book was not a potboiling bodice-ripper, but a saga about higher love. My whole theme revolved around the relationship between the main characters remaining platonic. Together, my reputable literary agent and I amassed a stack of rejections. Expect neither rhyme nor reason from publishers. Toward the end of my commercial publishing chronicle, my agent told me that she had sent my manuscript out 47 times.
“I don’t know what sells anymore,” she told me at one point of frustration. She and her agency believed in my book, believed in me. In the end, she abandoned my book; yet, when I mentioned that I was considering self-publishing, she immediately encouraged me to do so, emphasizing that I would appreciate keeping creative control.
That I did. Editors advise killing one’s darlings, but as my own publisher, I let stand certain sentences — “Old trees chanted dirges” — that had been in editorial cross hairs.
The independent-publishing learning curve seems to follow roughly the circumference of the Earth. My small part-time staff and I have learned much, yet have much to learn. I’m now much more sympathetic to the publisher’s point of view. Looking at a book from the other side of the desk opened my eyes and forced me to make difficult decisions, day after day after day.
For example, despite costs, I chose to publish a hardcover book, complete with dust jacket and foil stamp. Opting for an e-book or print-on-demand would have required far fewer resources. But books have changed my life, improved my own life story, so I wanted, on my watch, to publish a book not only artfully written, but beautiful to hold and behold.
A book to have, to hold
Having worked with graphic design much of my career, I possessed the skill set to art direct the book. I wholeheartedly embraced the opportunity to collaborate on the design of my own novel and express my lifelong passion for books, my aesthetics, in book design.
I’m convinced that no commercial publisher would have indulged the 20-some versions of my novel’s cover or allowed me to tweak every detail until the cover looked and felt just right. No commercial publisher would have listened to my visions of illuminated letters, printer’s ornaments, woodcut illustrations, historic fonts, intricate borders, and quirky margins.
One of the most satisfying aspects so far has been the response of people holding “Glass Halo” for the first time. Our painstaking efforts do not go unnoticed by bibliophiles.
I’ve read headline after headline, article after article about how the novel is dying, how hardcover books may be going bye-bye. At times, as an independent publisher, I’ve felt as if I am investing in spittoons. But I believe in my heart that quality books will still find welcoming hands.
I profoundly appreciate finding myself in an era in which a woman and her book can find outlets without going through the traditional gatekeepers. Self-publishing, in the end, requires self-awareness, self-restraint and, perhaps most important, self-love.
I love books, and I know fiction holds value. Reading remains a fundamentally important skill for humanity, and some of our lasting lessons come from novels. Books shape not only our imagination but our world, and I’m gratified to have had a hand in shaping my own book.
And the moral of the story is — in the words of Friday Jones Publishing’s tagline — wag your tale.
Colleen Smith has contributed to The Denver Post since 1996. Her first novel, “Glass Halo,” set primarily in contemporary Denver, is available through .
