Traditional vs Nontraditional Publishing and Why I’m Self-publishing Again

Over the past year, while working on my current book, Wild Running, I’ve shared chapters with other writers for their feedback. I also sometimes read their works-in-progress for the same purpose. I also helped create a series of author talks at my local library, where I met several regional authors, some published by small presses (usually poetry), others self-published. The topic of traditional vs self-publishing, especially for first-time authors, frequently came up.

I knew, when I started writing Wild Running, that I would self-publish. I had a good experience with self-publishing my first book, Growing Up Boeing.

I thought my experience with self-publishing, and reasons for choosing that option again, might be helpful to others working on a book, wondering how to get it published.

Background

In the early 2000s, I began a project with my father. I started recording the stories he and many of his colleagues at Boeing Flight Test had shared among themselves for decades. I knew the stories were amazing—I’d grown up hearing them, observing the reactions of listeners. I knew most weren’t publicly known. I also knew that if I didn’t get busy and record those stories, the protagonists, who were by then retired and in their seventies, might take them to their graves. I couldn’t let that happen.

But what to do with those recordings (other than get them transcribed)? I wasn’t a writer. At least, not by any real standard. I wrote lots of reports in my job as a family law attorney and guardian ad litem. But a book? I didn’t even know how to start.

I started taking non-fiction writing courses offered at night through the extension of my alma mater, the University of Washington. I became a member of the Pacific Northwest Writers Association, which held an annual three-day conference that included famous author talks, seminars on writing, and (for an extra fee), a five-minute opportunity to pitch your book idea to an agent and an editor.

In those writing courses, I worked on a chapter of the book I envisioned. I received great feedback on how to structure it, to grab readers’ attention.

I kept up with writing classes. Consistent advice was to get published. Anywhere. Pitch ideas to magazines. A friend handed me a magazine he’d been given at a pet expo. I’d never heard of it, but I pitched them an idea for an article on animal law.

The Bark magazine’s co-founder and editor said she liked the idea. That started a relationship that lasted almost twenty years, until the magazine was sold. Over the years, as I still dreamed of writing my book, I wrote articles for The Bark, learning much about the craft of writing.

I pitched ideas to a few other dog-themed magazines and had some success. I also wrote (for free) articles for my local bar association’s newsletter, mostly profiles of various jurists.

All good practice.

Eventually, I pitched the chapter I’d written for the aviation book to an aviation magazine. To my surprise, it was accepted. That’s when I knew I truly was on to something.

I forget how many years I attended those PNWA conferences, ever hopeful I’d somehow break through to the powers that be in the publishing industry, or find an agent who could do that for me. I tried to perfect an “elevator pitch” that described the book I was slowly writing, but I failed miserably. Each year, the poor agents and editors brought to town for the conference heard so many pitches in a given day. How to stand out? Especially when your book is niche (aviation history)?

It was the year an agent listened to my pitch, asked some questions that seemed to show interest but then asked, “Have you thought about doing it as fiction?” that I realized I was wasting my time. My book would never be perceived by a typical agent or editor as a big seller or marketable.

Yet I believed, deep down, there was an enthusiastic market out there for the stories I wanted to share. I was uniquely qualified to tap into that market, thanks to my father’s reputation and the friendships I’d developed with his colleagues over the years.

In 2009, my father died. He was the primary source of the stories, but also my expert, the person who made sure my terminology and descriptions were both accurate and relatable as I turned each story into a chapter. At least my father lived to see that first (and quite dramatic) chapter published in an aviation magazine. But without his expertise, I felt lost.

I set everything aside.

It took nearly five years for the grief to recede and the desire to write that book to return. Finishing the project became a matter of honor. My father and his colleagues (some of whom had also passed away after I interviewed them) trusted me with their stories. I couldn’t let them down. Some of those colleagues became my new technical experts.

I wasn’t going to waste any more years hoping for an agent, an advance, or a contract with some publishing house.

I began researching self-publishing. I attended conferences about it. I learned about the costs associated with doing self-publishing right: hiring a copy editor, a book cover designer, a formatter. I found a team of women, both romance writers, who created a company that ushered writers through the entire process, having learned to do it with their own books.

I felt hopeful. But by this time, I was struggling financially, my life upended by the recession, unable to work full-time because of my cerebral spinal fluid leaks, trying to keep my Idaho house while living in Washington where I had some work. I couldn’t afford the time off work to focus solely on writing the book (I’d only finished a handful of chapters), or pay for all those pre-publishing steps.

I read about Kickstarter, a crowd funding site for creative projects. The ask is usually accompanied by a gift. In my case, donors would get signed copies of the book. I made a big ask, enough to cover all of my living expenses for six months of writing, plus the costs of editing, formatting, and cover design. The trick: selecting a goal amount that’s achievable, because if you fall short, the funding fails and everyone who donated gets their money back.

To my shock, in the fall of 2012, my Kickstarter campaign goal was reached. That fact alone – that so many total strangers were willing to donate, to take a risk on me – gave me confidence there was an audience for my book.

I spent the summer of 2013 writing, a woman possessed. With no obligations other than caring for me and my dogs, I was able to focus like never before. Plus, I had scores of Kickstarter donors depending on me; I simply would not let them down.

I finished the manuscript by Labor Day. That fall, I began working with that team of women who helped authors navigate the self-publishing world. They did the copy editing, found me a cover designer, and formatted the book to the specifications of various publishing platforms (Kindle Direct Publishing/KDP, Nook, Draft2Digital, iBook, Smashwords).

Meanwhile, I reached out to some of those contacts I had through my father, asking for blurbs. They did not disappoint. One of them was the director of the Museum of Flight in Seattle, someone I’d never met. He provided a beautiful blurb. He also alerted their PR office about my book, and they reached out to help me promote it, both in the Museum of Flight’s store as well as by scheduling a presentation at the museum. I wouldn’t have even thought to seek those things on my own.

By February 2014, my book was ready to take flight. An excerpt appeared in the Museum of Flight’s newsletter, reaching my target audience. I gave that presentation, hosted and publicized by the Museum. Other Seattle-area magazines published excerpts from the book. Over the next year, I was asked to give presentations at conferences of various aviation groups. The Museum put a video of another presentation I gave, in 2016, on YouTube. It has been viewed 1.1K times. More terrific marketing I wouldn’t have thought to do myself.

All of that marketing snowballed on its own. I was learning as I went. I started out thinking my book probably wasn’t any good because I couldn’t convince any editors or agents to take me on to discovering that the aviation community loved it. Sales were swift in those first few months. In addition to the Museum of Flight’s store, Boeing reached out to say they’d like to carry it in their stores (several locations, in Washington and Kansas), ordering a couple hundred copies over a few months and scheduling a book signing for me in their Seattle store. I didn’t even know Boeing had stores until they called.

That’s my story. It’s unique, just as each book is unique, but I think other authors can find useful nuggets of information in my journey. I have no regrets going down the self-publishing path.

I could have continued to beat my forehead against the brick wall that is traditional publishing, hoping to finally convince some small publisher to take me on, but I’m impatient. I’d been working on the book, seeking a traditional publisher, for nearly ten years. My father died while I wasted time seeking traditional publishing. And self-publishing, long thought to be the depository of awful books not worth the paper needed to create them, had become reputable. If done correctly, it’s now impossible to tell a self-published book from a traditionally published one.

I did learn, though, that independent bookstores hate Amazon so much that almost all of them refuse to carry any book published by KDP. Even one of my closest friends from high school and college years wouldn’t carry my book in her book store. To address that issue, I created my own publishing imprint: Maian Meadows Publishing.

I bet by now you’re wondering how well my self-published book has done over the years, and how it compares to traditionally published books.

Traditional Publishing

First, for a new author, it’s almost impossible to get the attention of a large traditional publisher unless you’re a celebrity, a former president, or a staff member of that former president’s administration. There are lots of small publishing houses, usually focusing on one or two genres and publishing just a handful of books each year. (There are lots of disreputable small publisher scams out there. They demand money from the author up front, then either fail to publish the book, or do a terrible job. Avoid them.)

Traditional publishers end up working with around one percent of authors who query them; ninety-five percent of submitted manuscripts don’t even get looked at in detail.

Let’s say you’re one of the lucky ones: a legitimate, small publishing house signs you. New authors tend to fixate on getting an advance from a publisher. I’m sure an advance is great, but if you’re not already famous with a built-in platform for the publisher to exploit, what might that advance look like?

First-time authors might get an advance between $1,000 to $10,000, plus 5-18 percent of royalties. But remember, those royalties only kick in after the advance has been repaid. That could take years, if it happens at all. It all depends on how many copies are sold.

Traditionally published books sell around 3,000 copies over time, with only 250 sold in the first year. It’s a rare book that sells over 100,000 copies, and even rarer that one sells in the millions of copies. (Again, think celebrity author.) According to Bookstat, there were 2.6 million books sold online in 2020. Only 268 of them, or 0.01 percent, sold more than 100,000 copies.

Let’s say you get an advance of $6,000, and agree to royalties of 10 percent. The book’s price is $20. For every book sold, your royalty would be $2.00. You would need to sell 3,000 copies to pay back the advance. Only then would you start to see royalties. If you sell 250 copies the first year, and maintain that level in future years (which would be a stretch), it would take twelve years to pay back your advance. After repaying the advance, if you sell 250 books a year, you’d earn $500/year. Don’t quit your day job.

While the editing and cover design would have been taken care of by the publisher, you might not have had as much input as you wanted. And marketing? These days, especially with small presses, you’re on your own. For the sales amounts described above, no publisher will be sending you on a book tour.

Self-publishing

Publishing on your own, you won’t be getting an advance. Finding the time to write, and paying the editors, formatter, and cover designer is all on you. Using KDP and other online publishers to upload your book to their sales sites (like Amazon) is free.

There are millions of books published every year and yours needs to stand out. As I mentioned in my last post, a good cover is critical. But equally important, I believe, is a good interior. By that, I mean: clear writing, no typos, good grammar and punctuation, and perfect formatting. If you fail in any of those areas, readers will get frustrated and think, “If the author doesn’t care enough to do it right, why should I keep reading?” If they did buy your book, they’ll mention those shortcomings in their review on Amazon (where most of your sales will occur), which will deter other buyers.

My advice: spend the money up front to do it right. Create something you’re proud of.

How much might you spend?

According to Reedsy’s 2023 estimates, based on 20,000 services quotes from their freelancers, you can expect to incur these expenses:

Editing for a 60,000K word book: $2,400 – 3,400 (assumes one round of developmental editing plus a combination of copy editing and proofreading)

Cover design: $750

Formatting: $250-750

(The Reedsy blog has a good article about self-publishing costs.)

From my past and current experiences, those numbers are accurate.

Pricey, right?

Ah, but here’s what makes it easier to justify.

As a self-published author, you earn 40-60 percent royalties on the selling price of your book, and you get to set the price, adjusting it whenever you please. You also have complete creative control over the content, cover, and formatting. There’s potential for better profits long term; a quicker and more nimble ability to market, especially via social media; and the ability to reach niche readers using networks you may have already developed.

The genre of your book makes a difference in its success. Unfortunately for me, nonfiction is one of the less popular genres. Fantasy, science fiction, and romance are in the top ten. The average nonfiction book (e.g., biography, autobiography, or memoir) sells less than 250 copies per year. Rarely do they exceed 3,000 copies over the course of the book’s lifetime.

Most self-published authors, in all genres, sell 250 books or less, even if publishing more than one book.

I did a deep dive into the sales reports for my first book, Growing Up Boeing. I truly didn’t know how many copies had sold over the years, or how much income I had earned, until now. Sales was never the point. I just wanted to preserve and share my father’s stories. I was pleasantly surprised at my numbers, especially after learning how few copies most authors sell.

The chart shows what I sort of knew, based on the monthly deposits of royalties to my bank account over the last ten years: there were lots of sales in the first year (2014; the sales in late 2013 are advance copies) which dropped off precipitously in the next several years. But still, I sold a few copies each month. (This chart doesn’t include the copies I ordered and sold directly at presentations and to a few outlets, e.g., Boeing Stores and the Museum of Flight, probably another 300-400 books total.)

In December 2018, after taking a free online course on advertising using Amazon Ads, I started running ads. I didn’t spend much. As the chart shows, sales increased thereafter, peaking during the early part of the pandemic. They’ve dropped and flattened again, in part, I think, because I stopped running Amazon Ads for a bit, and when I decided to start again, Amazon Ads changed. I have yet to figure out how to target correctly under their new system.

I also have sales through other channels: Draft2Digital and Smashwords (which are now a combined entity), Nook, and iBook, but those sales are negligible, no more than $10/month.

How much have I earned from sales of Growing Up Boeing?

The vast majority of my sales are via Amazon. I had to go through each KDP monthly report, 2014 to current, to derive a figure: $11, 447. The sales from other vendors (Draft2Digital, Nook, etc.) might be an additional $1,000 over the course of the past ten years. And I often sold books directly, e.g., when I gave a presentation at a conference, or when supplying Boeing Stores or the Museum of Flight. Each book I order as an author costs me $5.22 (the cost of printing at Amazon) plus shipping. When I sell those books directly (initially for $24.95 and later, for $14.99) I earn more because Amazon isn’t taking a share of the royalties. I don’t have an amount earned from those sales over the last ten years, but I would guess another $3,000.

Let’s say my total gross royalties so far is $15,500. Over ten years, that’s an average of $1,550 per year.

As I like to joke, the royalties from my first book pay for my dogs’ kibble, treats, toys, beds, and veterinary care. Royalties certainly aren’t enough to support me.

Here’s how KDP calculates royalties:

My book’s calculation: (0.60 x $14.99) – $5.22 = $3.77 royalty/paperback. When my book first came out, the paperback price was $24.95 and e-book $9.99, so the royalties earned were higher. Now, they’re $14.99 and $4.99, respectively. Another way to look at it: my royalty per $4.99 e-book is $2.63 (53% of sale price) and the royalty per $14.99 paperback is $3.77 (25% sale price).

It always amazes me that, ten years on, Growing Up Boeing is still selling a few copies every month. That’s priceless.

Just for grins, here are two monthly sales reports from KDP for Growing Up Boeing. The first is for August 2020, when sales were spiking. I credit the pandemic for that.

I was pleasantly surprised yet puzzled by this report. There were more-than-usual sales in the US, but there was also a large purchase from India, not a place where I usually saw sales. Perhaps someone bought several copies to give as gifts? Or, a library system bought them? I’ll never know.

The August 2021 sales report was more typical, the pandemic spike gone.

Mostly sales in the US, with a few copies sold in Australia, Canada, Italy. As you can see, the royalties earned in US dollars varies based on the exchange rates of the individual countries of sale.

The Intangibles

I know I got lucky with Growing Up Boeing. Within the world of aviation, my father was a celebrity, and that helped propel sales of my book.

I’m definitely not a celebrity. The book I’m currently finishing, Wild Running, will not have that sort of boost. I’m strategizing how to reach certain target audiences. I’m setting my expectations low.

So why spend all the time, energy, and money to write, pay editors, a cover designer, and formatter, when I don’t expect royalties from Wild Running to offset my investment in the near term, if at all?

Because as a writer, a natural-born storyteller (a trait inherited from my father), I’m happiest when sharing my stories and experiences through the written word. It’s my form of entertainment, if you will. It’s why I blog. Some people spend lots of money on travel, or restaurants, or a hobby. I spend it on writing. It exercises my brain, makes me happy, and helps create a supportive community around me.

What always makes my day is hearing from readers who enjoyed and appreciated my efforts. I have kept every email and letter received from readers of Growing Up Boeing over the years. I still get a few each year. Those emails—along with the heartfelt reviews left on the book’s Amazon page—fill my heart, make me smile, and help me believe I’ve done something worthwhile in collecting those stories and sharing them with the world. I take pride in that achievement. Even better, I’ve preserved my father’s legacy.

How many people say they want to write a book, but never do? It’s not easy. Anyone who accomplishes it should feel proud. It doesn’t matter whether you have a traditional publisher, or published it yourself, you’re an author.

The biggest and best rewards for publishing your book are intangible.

You can’t put a price on the atta-girls (or atta-boys) an author receives. They’re magic.

[Feature image by John Michael Thomson, Unsplash.]