"Rich are the records . . . with stories of penniless authors,
who, sick with hope so long deferred, and at last despairing, have resorted to
wild and tragic devices . . ."
So begins
a story in the Los Angeles Examiner,
New Year's Eve edition, December 31, 1905. The feature tells the tale of one such desperate
author, a school teacher named Edith Allonby. For four years she'd labored on a
novel, The Fulfilment [spelled with one "l"] into which
she poured heart and soul. She had been published before, but her books had not
been hits. The Fulfilment was going
to change all that. In fact, Miss Allonby was certain its spiritual themes would
change the world. (Indeed, she thought the book had been given to her by God, so the pressure was on).
But the
book was rejected. First, by her own publisher. Then by all the other
publishing houses she sent it to. "I have submitted my book to all these
men," she wrote in a note. "I have tried in vain. They will not
accept it, yet shall 'The Fulfilment' reach the people to whom I appeal, for I
have found another way."
After
finishing the note, Miss Allonby changed into a silk evening gown, put fresh
flowers in her hair, and sat in a comfortable chair. She was found dead the
next day, her manuscript on her lap and an empty bottle of carbolic acid at her
side.
And so it
has been for countless authors for hundreds of years. Not normally ending in
suicide (though such cases exist) but often in frustration, depression and
despair. (The Fulfilment, BTW, was published in a limited edition after Miss Allonby's death).
There was one primary reason for all this distress: Their
fate as writers was not in their own hands. To get anywhere close to
"success" they had to be accepted by an established publishing house
(which alone had the means to produce and distribute a book), and then hope
that they earned some money for their efforts.
Those two
things—acceptance and income—defined writing success.
Included
under "Getting Published," we can list some ancillary things writers
hope for. Like getting on a bestseller list. Perhaps being nominated (even
winning) a prestigious award. Maybe just the feeling of being part of an
exclusive club.
But now we
are experiencing a sea change on the other side of the diagram:
We all
know the traditional model is shrinking. Advances on new contracts are at
historic lows. With physical shelf-space disappearing, print revenues are down. While digital income is up for the publishers, the slice of that pie given
to authors remains stagnated at 25% of net (or roughly 17.5% of retail). And new writers are finding publishers increasingly risk averse regarding debut authors.
Still,
many writers remain focused on that left circle. It represents some sort of
"validation" even though it could very well mean less income (the
right circle) and fewer readers.
But now a
new model of writing success has appeared. Writers, for the first time since
the troubadour era (when you could go out on your own and make up stories in
song and take in some coin), have it within their power to get their writing
out there without a middleman (the fancy term is "disintermediation").
And
further, unlike self-published authors of yore, they actually have a chance to
make real dough. Every day we are hearing more accounts of
self-published writers who are earning significant income as independents.
Yet income alone is not the main draw of this new model, which looks like this:

Freedom is the invaluable commodity here. To be able to write what you truly
want to write, and know that you can get it into the marketplace, is
tremendously liberating. It is, in fact, the engine of happiness for a writer.
It's exhilarating to write for yourself, see what you've written, fix it, and
keep on writing—and be assured that it will have a place in the stream of
commerce, for as long as you live.
This does not mean that going the traditional route is a spurious view of "success." If one seeks that validation, it's there to be pursued. The point is, however, that it is no longer the only game in town. Which is why I am more jazzed about being a writer than ever. Not just because of increased production and income, but because of the
freedom to take responsibility for my own work.
Let me be
quick to point out, however, that this responsibility carries challenges. Being
in charge means you are CEO of your own company. You alone are in charge of quality control and production. You can expect
to experience the stresses and strains of running a small business. You will
need new skills to handle them. These can be acquired, but only through effort
and self-discipline.
But it's more
than worth it to be holding the reins of your own writing and life.
I think
Miss Allonby would have felt that way, too. Had she been able to self-publish, she
might have lived a long, full life. Maybe
she'd have written many more books, grown a readership, and made
some money, too.
I can say this because, in one of life's ironic and poignant turns, The Fulfilment by Edith Allonby is now available for the Kindle.
So how would you define success as a writer?