Why I Erased All My Self-Published Books—and Why It Changed Everything

Why I Erased All My Self-Published Books—and Why It Changed Everything

Photo by Markus Winkler on Unsplash

The email appeared in my Inbox with a subject line that should have thrilled me: “Congratulations! You have been published!”

Instead, I felt a twinge of nausea. The year was 2017. The notification from Amazon marked the official launch of my first self-published novel.

Inside, I felt hollow. It was as if I’d received a participation trophy when I hadn’t even showed up to the event. That twinge of discomfort was my first clue that the self-publishing gig was not for me.

It would not be my last.

The Gold Rush That Wasn’t

The self-publishing boom of the 2010s seemed to happen at just the right time.

Hugh Howey was making headlines with his breakout hit Wool, Amanda Hocking was signing million-dollar deals after her self-publishing success, and E.L. James had transformed fan fiction into a global phenomenon with Fifty Shades of Grey. There were more. Many more.

From outside, it looked like a gold rush. Traditional publishing’s gatekeepers had been bypassed. Authors were connecting directly with readers. This was all verifiably happening.

I felt compelled to give it a go. Traditional publishers and literary agents didn’t like anything about my work. They had been almost comically uninterested in everything I’d sent them for 30 years.

Understandable, really. My writing — experimental literary puzzles, unreliable narrators, unconventional structures, blurry genre lines, the lot — was not exactly what the market demanded.

Self-publishing seemed the answer. The revolution had arrived and I wanted in. The door was wide open. All I had to do was step through it.

What I didn’t realize was that I had mistaken an open door for an audience.

The Silent Launch

My first book went live, prompting that nausea-inducing congratulatory email. The ego-crazed, utterly shameless maniac who secretly lives inside all writers took over. I swallowed my nausea. I persuaded myself that my disquiet was just fear of no longer being a comfortable failure. And I waited for…

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