Getting it right vs. getting it 'out there' - Mari Biella

Where we'd all like to see our books, eventually ...
Image c/o Wikimedia Commons

One piece of advice that is frequently aimed at today's self-publishers is that we ought to write, and publish, at a pretty high velocity. Conventional wisdom (insofar as conventional wisdom can be said to exist in a movement that’s still in its infancy) suggests that momentum is everything. A single book is worth little; two or three books represent just a fraction of what has to be done. We need, in short, to have a vast personal bookshelf, stuffed full of multiple titles.

I can see the logic of this viewpoint, too. After all, if a reader has read and enjoyed one of your books, then they’ll be altogether more inclined to pick up another. However, I’d add a small caveat: this is only likely to work if the books in question are any good.

Over the past few years I've read a lot of self-published books. Many of them, of course, have been wonderful: well-thought-out, well-written, ambitious in scope and beautifully executed. I've often been tempted to seek out more from the authors of those books. They represent all that is best about self-publishing: the strong, interesting, brilliant voices that, for whatever reason, have either been bypassed or abandoned by the traditional industry.

However, a handful of those books have been stinkers: poorly-written, unedited, badly-formatted, riddled with typos and grammatical errors, and sometimes literally nonsensical. Frustratingly, I could sometimes see the germ of a good story beneath all of that mess: a story that, if it were honed and sculpted, could have been very good indeed. But a good story, while a significant advantage, is not all that it takes; a lot comes down to how that story is told. Needless to say, I won’t be in a hurry to pick up any more books by the second group of authors, regardless of how much they've published.

Books, books, and more books...
Image c/o Wikimedia Commons

I should stress at this point that I don’t expect perfection in a self-published book. No self-publisher has the resources of a major publishing house. I don’t object to the odd typo or mistake. I do, however, prefer books that are at least reasonably well-written. Above all, I like to feel that the author has given his or her all to the book, and has taken the time to get it right – even if, in the process, that all-important momentum was slowed down a bit.

This is not just a hypothetical issue for me. I currently have a novel sitting on my hard drive. I've been working on it, on and off, for about five years. It's been through numerous drafts, and has been polished to a reasonable degree. It currently runs to about 106,000 words, more or less, which makes it a veritable doorstop by my standards. There’s much about it that I like, too: I think that it’s an interesting story with an engaging protagonist. The standard of writing, I think, is reasonably good throughout. It’s not perfect, but I could, theoretically, publish it tomorrow.

‘Well, what are you waiting for?’ the momentum-is-everything crowd would no doubt be shouting by now. ‘Get on with it! Get it out there! Build your bookshelf!’

And, in a way, I’d like to do just that. I like the feeling of satisfaction that comes with knowing that something is finished. I like the curious feeling of resignation and relief that follows publication. I’d certainly like to build an impressive bookshelf. And yet . . .

There’s something about this book that isn't quite right. Infuriatingly, I’m not absolutely sure what exactly is wrong with it, which makes fixing it an extraordinarily laboured task. Something about it just isn't entirely convincing. The plot creaks a bit in places; one plot point in particular really doesn't make a great deal of sense, but for the life of me I can’t think how to change it. If I can see these flaws, I’m pretty sure that readers wouldn't be blind to them; and my strong feeling is that readers deserve better than that. I can’t promise them that they’ll enjoy my book, obviously, but I can have the satisfaction of knowing that I've given it my all and made it the best book I possibly could.

In short, I want to publish this book, but I won’t. Not yet, and possibly not ever. Not until, or unless, I can be sure that it represents my best effort.

I made this one as good as I could. Even if it took a while.

The freedom offered by self-publishing – the freedom to publish what you want when you want – is intoxicating, but I'm always wary of letting it go to my head. That wonderful freedom, after all, comes at a cost. The buck stops with me. There’s no one else to blame. If my book is bad, or not as good as it could be, that’s my responsibility, and mine alone. One of the merits of the traditional publishing model, perhaps, is that a book has to be vetted by objective, if not infallible, judges before it sees the light of day. In self-publishing, that’s just another task that is devolved to the individual author-publisher, and it can be the hardest task of all. Seeing your book in an objective light is hard, and perhaps impossible - but we have to try, don't we?

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