Why I Changed My Mind About Self-Publishing

For years, my biggest fear was having to publish my book myself. Here’s why that changed.

I paid a brilliant literary professional to edit my query letter because I had been following her publishing advice for years on social media. Initially, I got a form email saying she was booked for the year, but then she emailed me to say a random spot had opened up. I couldn’t believe my luck. It felt like the stars were aligning. She made my letter incredible—even followed me back on social media. I took that as a sign that she thought my book had potential, and that it could be a market success.

After a year of researching agents to personalize each letter, I was as ready as I’d ever be. On a cold morning in October, I sent out my first batch of ten query letters.

Every agent either rejected my query or didn’t respond. Which was expected. I had been warned dozens of times. It’s a running joke, and a badge of honor to some, being rejected hundreds of times. Putting my energy into that machine felt so counterproductive, so I tried to get very clear about what exactly I expected an agent and publisher to do for me that I couldn’t do myself. 

In the end, it was three things. Notirity and validation from the very systems and class that oppress most of us. Second, formatting. Nothing prepares you for how difficult it is to format an entire book and make it look perfect. Luckily I married a perfectionist copywriter who, as a way of protecting and showing me love, has poured months of his life and decades of talent into this manuscript with me. And third - speaking to professionals that I don’t feel qualified or good enough to speak to. I know that internalizing that I’m not good enough will be the death of me, and my book. So I had to let that go. 

A month later, the woman who edited my letter unfollowed me, and I found myself staring numbly at my phone. I knew it wasn’t personal, but I couldn’t shake the discomfort of putting my hopes in the hands of someone extremely busy and unavailable, hoping they’d make something happen for me—if only I could get their attention the right way. And when it didn’t work out, I let it hurt my feelings.

Had I really come this far in life just to fall for that again?

I’ve spent most of my life waiting on people with enough disposable income to spend thousands on a single dinner, if not worse. These are not the people I wrote my book for. As I researched agents online, I kept finding Ivy League credentials, Hamptons wedding photos, and Manhattan high-rise office addresses. It left me wondering: What the hell am I doing here? 

For years, I clung to the idea that I would finally feel safe and validated when a Big Five publisher picked up my book. But I know enough about universal law to realize that the querying process wasn’t just painful—it felt deeply misaligned. It was gross to realize that the only reason anyone in traditional publishing would care about my story was because it could make money. That much was clear.

Why is it normal to twist yourself and your art into the most consumable, convenient package so that a billion-dollar company can profit off you—while you get 10%? For what? So my book can sit on a shelf with ten million others?

Then came the cannon event.

A woman whose work I deeply respect—an art historian & metaphysical professor (hey, Mel :)—left a comment on my social media:

"All of these old ways are crumbling. You are meant to do this yourself, your way, with your own energy. You already have everything you need; you just have to expand into it. These large corporations, dominated by toxic masculinity—structures that are currently breaking apart—are not intended to represent your voice. That’s why it feels this way. You’re not being rejected; you’re being guided."

When I read that, I put my phone down and sobbed hysterically. I knew I had to kill my ego and walk through the fear of not being good enough to figure it out myself. No entity with more money or power was going to save me, keep me safe, or do it for me. And I knew in my bones that I didn’t have until 2028 to wait for a publisher’s schedule.

What if, after creating my first painting, I’d waited for a gallery to find me and sell it for me—but they couldn’t schedule a sale for three years? And even then, they’d take 90% of the profit? The insanity of that gamble is incredible. I still have dozens of books to write.

If I charge $35 for my book and publish it myself, I make roughly $14 per book. For a $55 hardcover, I’d make $22 per book. (Kevin, I know you’re losing your mind because it’s called a hardback in the UK, but I refuse to say it because it sounds like a weird sex turtle.)

By comparison, if I had a publisher and an agent, I might get a $50,000 advance (generous but unlikely for a debut) and about $2.50 profit per book—money that first goes toward recouping the advance. Marketing budgets vary widely, and smaller or mid-tier publishers often expect authors to handle much of it themselves. I’ve heard horror stories from authors who weren’t allowed to market their work the way they wanted or who had little to no say in their book covers. I can’t fathom seeing my novel with a cover I had minimal control over.

No success I’ve had has ever followed a traditional path or looked good on paper. And the truth is, nothing will ever make me feel completely unafraid to put this story into the world. I’ve always clung to some far-off ideal to fake the courage to keep going.

Maybe it’s time to let go of that illusion.

My debut novel, Moxy: One Girl’s Incredible Tale of Resilience and Transformation, will be available on Amazon Saturday, January 18th, at 4 PM PST.