I never debated over whether to self-publish. That decision was made for me. I queried my first novel widely, on the mistaken belief that finding an agent would be a snap, and also that the novel was quite good. Naivete can be a plus. You don't know enough not to try things and you learn valuable lessons from having failed. While I know that agents rarely read the sample pages they insist the author provides, and they form their judgements from the query alone, in my case it was fortuitous that they didn't read my writing sample. Better to be thought to have a bad query than a bad novel, I guess.
I grew disgusted with the process. It wasn't fair! (is what I said in my head). I was determined to prove all those agents wrong, so once I completed my second novel, I queried it with a vengeance. Even after I exhausted every agent who repped my genre, even the iffy ones, I still didn't give up. I searched out small presses and continued submitting. One person actually requested the full manuscript. I was on my way! A few months later when I received her response, it stopped me in my tracks. She hated it! At least she was good enough to tell me why. And yes, she was right.
I took her (many) criticisms to heart when I embarked on my third novel, and it turned out much better. I was finally catching on. This story had a good premise, very little back story, and while I still never outlined, it flowed nicely; cohesively. I still believed it was necessary to create a subplot, and so I did. I was happy with the finished manuscript. It was a family saga with a touch of white collar crime and a generous helping of plain-old-crime. Well done! This time for sure I would land an agent.
I've forgotten the number of agents I queried, but I'm fairly certain it was nearly two hundred. I never even received a partial request, much less a full. And that was it. I was done writing. That would show 'em!
So, there my three novels sat, taking up space on my hard drive. Bad, mediocre, or good as they may be, why should they just die on the vine? And thus, I self-published them.* I had nothing to lose. For a while I would check to see if I'd made any sales, but of course I hadn't. Then I stopped caring. They were out there; I was "published".
*That terrible second novel is no longer available.
Once I finally got over my pique and took another stab at writing, my next project turned out to be a novella, which was much more my speed, and I again self-published. I didn't even know there were sites that an author could use to promote their book, so obviously I did no marketing. And again, I didn't care if it sold or not.
This procedure went along swimmingly with each subsequent novella. It was enough to have them out there on Amazon's shelves. But later I began reading about promos and how important they were, and I got suckered in. At first glance, most of the sites were too expensive for me, but I dipped my toe in the waters of a few of the less expensive ones. Well, that didn't work. Then I found out about ARCs, the "sure way" to garner reviews, and I plunged into that process, too. Oh, and of course every author needs a newsletter, so I started one.
I found that I hated marketing. Really hated it. It felt degrading, which is why you wouldn't want to hire me for your sales force. Worse, it was a failure. A couple sales here, a free book grabbed there. It wasn't worth my time or the battering of my self-esteem.
It took a long, long time, but finally it hit me ~ I don't care about sales. Sure, they'd be a nice bonus, but that's not why I write.
When I was young, around fifteen or sixteen, I was obsessed with music. My mom bought a manual typewriter that she planned to use to create invoices for my parents' business (which I would type out, of course). That never really panned out, so I claimed the typewriter and began writing music newsletters, utilizing all the tidbits I'd gleaned from listening to the radio and reading the few music publications available. I was quite dedicated. I tapped one out at least once a month for about a year. Of course, they were never mailed. Who would I send them to? I was a kid. But I really enjoyed doing them. If I hadn't, I wouldn't have kept going. I kept them in a pocket portfolio until the day I started purging old useless stuff in preparation for moving out of my parents' house. I dearly wish I'd kept them. Thinking about them now gives me a warm feeling.
My books are not going to be purged. They'll never disappear completely from Amazon, and even if all my electronics fail, I can always purchase a new copy so I can hold those books in my hands forever. Knowing they exist gives me a warm feeling.
How many people have a permanent record of their accomplishments? Just like with Spotify, where my band's music will live forever (I'm pretty sure they don't purge music), I can prove definitively that I did something. And if I'm the only person who knows about my books, that's enough.
My publishing goal is to document. That's it. To mark the years of my life and to not forget that I'm actually pretty good. I really don't care if no one knows that but me.
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