Why Creative Nonfiction Writers are Scared of Self-Publishing

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I’ve been thinking about the place of self-publishing in the creative nonfiction (CNF) world since last summer when I participated in a round-table discussion on publishing in which my perspective as a self-published blogger was not well received. Granted, I was flustered and may not have represented my point well, but it seems that while fiction writers are embracing self-publishing a little at a time, the CNF community largely rejects it and sees any writer who pursues it as naive, vain, and delusional.

There’s a belief among CNF writers that association with a traditional publisher lends us credibility. Obviously, credibility is essential to anyone who writes nonfiction. Additionally, we believe that being accepted by the publishing establishment proves our worth as writers. I don’t know why we still believe this because I’ve seen plenty of truly awful books published the old fashioned way, but we cling to this idea like a middle schooler trying to believe in Santa Claus.

The flip side of our over-valuing of traditional publishing is that we believe self-publishing devalues our work. We believe if it were any good, an editor would have picked it up or that if the writer were not so lazy, she would have shopped it around. These are self-defeating assumptions rooted in intellectual classism, which tells us someone Up There, some overdressed academic in a sky scraper is a more qualified judge of our work than we are.

This may be vain of me, but I disagree. It’s true that writers get attached to our favorite sentences (no matter how awful they are) and everyone can use editorial help, but if we decide what’s good writing based on what’s popular, then it’s no surprise mainstream literature is going the way of pop music. Hint: Incredibly innovative and beautiful music is still being made every day, but you’re not going to hear it on your top 40 station.

Some writers will say, “aim high and work your way down,” a piece of advice I heard repeated many times at Goucher last summer. I get it. Everyone wants to publish big. Everyone wants a book deal. I want to be paid an advance and have a publisher finance my trip around the world so I can write about it, but those opportunities are increasingly rare. So you can pursue that, and that’s great because sometimes that path works out for people. But it very often doesn’t work out, and even traditionally published authors suffer from low sales numbers and awkward party conversations in which you have to explain your book to people who have never heard of it and are only pretending to be interested. So if that path looks miserable to you, pick something else.

Self-pub is equally difficult and lacking in guarantees, but it’s no less valid. Yes, there is a risk of entering a flooded market, but there’s also the possibility that your audience will find you where a publishing house wouldn’t have reached them. Maybe they wouldn’t have given your weird book a chance. Maybe “that’s not selling this year.” Maybe they just don’t think anyone cares about your story. But if you care enough about your story to write it, you should write it. And if it’s important to you to publish it, you should publish it.

If you want to be a famous writer and sell millions of books, I can’t tell you how to do that. I’m not even sure I’d want to do that if I knew how. What I do want is the ability to write what matters most to me and reach people in a meaningful way. Self-publishing gives me the opportunity to do that and the control the do it in a way that’s sustainable for me. And by sustainable, I mean it doesn’t make me hate my life. That’s goal number one.

At the end of the day, it’s up to writers to decide the future of publishing. The more we cater to “what sells,” the more mainstream literature homogenizes just like pop music. Independent musicians, film makers, and fiction writers have taken it upon themselves to do their work and publish it regardless of the nod from on high, but for some reason, the CNF community can’t do that. The only reason I can see is fear:

  • fear that you lack the credibility and validation supplied by a publishing house.
  • fear of being seen as a lesser writer by your peers.
  • fear of having to explain self-publishing to people.
  • fear that you’ll never sell enough books to make any money.
  • fear that you will publish something terrible and no one will have the heart to tell you.
  • … or that they will.
  • fear that you will negate future opportunities by marring yourself with the sin of self-publishing.

In other words, the CNF community still believes that self-publishing is not for serious writers, so I think it’s time we clear this up:

If you write and you’re serious about it, you’re a serious writer. If you write and you laugh about it, you’re a humorous writer. If you write and you’re a judgmental jerk about it, guess what that makes you. 🙂

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Weekly Assignment: Grit in the Shoe

Abandoned Shoes

“Does anyone ever get to write without a bit of grit in one’s shoe?”

-Eleanor Hogan @ Goucher College 8/8/2007

It was a sweltering August morning at Goucher College, and we had just walked across  campus via a dusty path, which always resulted in pebbles and grit getting into people’s shoes. As we did every morning during residency, we sat down and wrote for the first few minutes of our workshop group, and this is what Eleanor had to say when it was all done. She was speaking literally, of course, about the annoyance of having pebbles stuck in your shoe, but everything is symbolic during a writing residency.

Does anyone ever get to write without a bit of grit in one’s shoe? Do we accomplish anything without at least some little annoyance getting under our skin? In my experience, the answer is no.

I do some of my best writing when I am annoyed, confused, depressed, anxious, or dissatisfied. But not because I want to glorify those negative feelings — far from it. Rather, writing is how I hash them out, lay out all the factors, pin them down with the right words, and as I do so, a solution begins to present itself. Writing is like performing surgery, using words to get down to the heart of the issue and see what’s causing this odd pain. It is a barbaric kind of experimental medicine in which practices like bloodletting are not only still in use but highly recommended.

What’s on your mind today? What grit is in your shoe? What is nagging at you and distracting you? Can you transform it from an annoyance into an asset? Sit with it, observe it, breathe with it. Then, from that place of calm awareness, decide what to do with it. Make some notes in your journal, write a poem about it, draw a picture of it, or take action elsewhere in your life.

Go.

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just stop and listen

Here’s an excerpt from my journal dated Wed. 8/1/07 while at Goucher College.

It’d be nice to yell right now, but I won’t. I am quiet and relatively still. The last two days of talk talk talking about myself and my work has got me wishing someone would cut out my vocal cords and refuse to give them back until I learn/promise to use them correctly. I cannot learn to do anything until I’ve done it wrong several times. My brain is always (almost) at least two words ahead of my hand, my mouth and my ears. Often, it is waiting for someone to shut up so someone else can have a turn to wait for me to shut up. I wish my ears were buckets so I could fish around in them for what they gathered yesterday, what I didn’t really listen to. People are laughing outside. What is so funny? Maybe it’s entertaining that I am in here wishing to be a bucket filled with anything but their voices.

Why am I sharing this with you? At least partly just for fun, which is why I do just about everything. But also because it still rings true.

Do you ever just stop and listen? To yourself or anyone else?

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