This Modern Writer: Todd Keisling, DIY

“Oh, you’re a writer, huh?  Where are you published?”

I was asked this question last week.  I’d ventured into the employee lounge to get another cup of coffee when a coworker walked in. The conversation which followed was typical and light, going from the happenings on CNN to the weather and, finally, to my plans for the weekend.

“I’m going to work on my next novel,” I told him.

The coworker seemed startled at first.  A writer?  Here? The reaction is usually the same. People in the workplace don’t expect to find a writer in the wild.

I like to imagine my writer-self as a kind of secret identity.  I work from 8 to 5 every day, then return home where I take off my normal person hat, and put on my writer hat.  Most people who know me also know about this identity, so I suppose it’s not so secret.  On the other hand, the folks with whom I have limited interaction every working day haven’t the slightest clue, and sometimes I prefer that.  It prevents the interrogatives.

Such as, “Where are you published?”

I’m afraid I have to be candid about something.  You probably won’t like it.  See, a couple of years ago, I decided to forego the traditional, flagellating routes of the publishing industry and do it myself.  Yes, you’re correct in your inference.  I self-published.

Answering the question “Where are you published?” becomes a bit problematic.   Sure, I’d love to be able to respond, “Oh, I’m published with Scribner.” Or Random House, St. Martin’s, Penguin, take your pick.  That’s a simple answer. People recognize those names. When you tell someone you self-published, they usually look at you for a moment like you’re trying to pull a fast one on them, as was the case that day last week in the break room, and I found myself wishing I hadn’t said anything.

That bothers me.  Obviously it stuck in my brain, or else I wouldn’t be writing about it now. That feeling like I should be ashamed of my work and the direction in which I took it made me recall the period of time in which I made the decision.  It was on one August evening two years ago when I submitted the final document for distribution that I forever branded myself as a “self-publisher.”

Self-publisher.  Even I can’t say it aloud without feeling dirty or rebellious.  There is a taboo in the publishing world surrounding the act of publishing one’s own work, and I am not immune to it.  I imagine this taboo has something to do with the lack of legitimacy, that anyone can do it, and that most self-published material is of extremely low quality.   I won’t deny that last bit.   I’ve seen some rather terrible self-published books.  It also doesn’t help that the act of self-publishing carries with it the same connotations as stealing a cookie from its jar.  It seems most in the industry consider it cheating. Every writer has their dues to pay, after all. Self-publishers just take the easy route, skip the editing process, and do it themselves.   Damn them for breaking the rules, right?

I’ll be perfectly honest:  I regretted the decision for a very long time.  I kicked myself for taking that plunge when someone at Tor said, “This is excellent, and definitely something we would pursue, except” — You can fill in the blanks.  I kicked myself two days ago when I realized it’s been 9 months since I sent out a three-chapter sample of that same novel to an indie publisher.   Still no word on that one.

No one wants to touch a self-published piece of work.   It’s cursed, you see.   If it was self-published, it must be so terrible that no one else wanted to print it.   It must be the worst piece of shit written in the English language.   I knew this would happen.   I knew it the moment I clicked “send” and my baby, in its proofed, fully-formatted glory, went whizzing across the digital tubes to its new home at the print-on-demand school for the gifted.

Why, then, did I do it?   I’ve asked myself that question for two years now.   My answer is simple, and probably a little underwhelming:   I wanted to do it myself.   There are other immediate reasons—building a steady readership, for one—but the DIY nature of it stands at the top of the list.   I wanted to have my hands in it every step of the way.   I wanted to learn everything I could about what goes into making a book a reality.

During an interview earlier this year, I was asked if I would recommend self-publishing to others.   I would, and I do, if for no other reason than to learn and understand the publishing process.   This suggestion comes with a price, and it is here the dues are paid, albeit by different means.   Self-publishers must take on the responsibility of dozens of people to make one little book come to life.   They sweat over margins, font kerning, and bleed areas.   They fret over promotional methods and signing events that fall through at the very last minute. They wish they had an agent and a publicist, and they dream of the day when both will be obtained.   They celebrate when their books climb the Amazon sales rank, and they nearly faint when they learn over 3,000 people downloaded their novel last year.   They have the satisfaction of saying they did it their way.

Last week, when my coworker asked where I’m published, I felt the shame.   I felt dirty.   I thought about lying and producing some fictional press just to move beyond the conversation.   I didn’t, though.   Instead I swallowed my presumptions and looked him in the eye.   I realized self-publishing wasn’t something to be ashamed of, and I told him, “I did it myself.” The satisfaction of that sentence made it all worth it.

Todd Keisling is a writer, occasional blogger, and author of the novel A LIFE TRANSPARENT.  He lives with his wife, Erica, somewhere in Pennsylvania.  Contrary to popular opinion, he is a cat person.