The Other Mountain
When I started writing in 2013, there seemed to be only one path to becoming a writer.
You wrote stories. You submitted them to the slush pile. You opened rejection emails, sighed, and moved on. Eventually, if you were lucky and stubborn enough, you landed a literary agent. Your agent queried publishers. Somewhere, a room full of people decided your book was worth printing. Then—and only then—could you call yourself an author. At least, that's what I believed.
For years, traditional publishing wasn't just my goal—it was the definition of success. I wasn't interested in having written a book; I wanted the whole package. A Big Five publisher. A launch party. My novel face-out at Barnes & Noble. The validation that came from someone in the industry saying, Yes. This deserves to exist.
Lately, though, I've noticed something changing—not just in myself, but in conversations across the writing community. More and more writers have begun describing traditional publishing as broken, exclusive, even rigged. I don't think that's exactly true. I think publishing is doing what businesses do. Publishers invest extraordinary amounts of time, money, and people into every book they acquire. Of course they look for stories they believe readers will buy. That's not corruption; it's economics. Romance, fantasy, thrillers, mysteries, historical fiction—those books dominate the shelves because readers love them. Honestly, I love that. Every time I walk into Marshall's and see stacks of paperbacks by the checkout line, I smile. BookTok has introduced millions of people to reading and connecting over books they love. The world needs more readers, not fewer.
But businesses also minimize risk. That means debut authors face long odds. Not impossible odds—new writers sign with agents and publishers every day—but long ones. And even after signing, there are no guarantees. Marketing budgets are finite. Publicity varies wildly. A traditional publishing deal isn't a promise that readers will ever find your work. Realizing that didn't make me cynical. It made me ask a different question. Was I chasing publication...or was I chasing permission? Somewhere along the way, I realized I'd quietly confused the two.
Over the past decade I've published short stories, worked with editors, taught writing workshops, and devoted thousands of hours to studying craft. More importantly, I've written stories that I genuinely believe in. Whether a publishing house chooses to acquire them doesn't change their worth. For the first time, I realized I didn't need someone else's belief before I could act on my own.
So, I've decided to self-publish a collection of short stories.
I no longer want to spend years waiting to find out whether someone else thinks these stories deserve readers. That doesn't mean I've found a shortcut. If anything, I've chosen a different mountain. I'll hire an editor. Commission cover art. Learn formatting, distribution, metadata, reviews, launch strategy, and marketing. I'll make mistakes. I'll almost certainly waste money. I'll probably get things wrong the first time. And I’m excited about all of it. Suddenly, publishing has stopped feeling like asking permission and started feeling like building something.
When I was younger, success looked like someone opening a door for me. Now it looks more like learning how to build the door myself. I have no idea how this project will unfold, but I'd like to bring you along for the ride. I'll share what works, what doesn't, what surprises me, and what I wish I'd known from the beginning.
To share one thing this decision has taught me: Sometimes the thing standing between us and the work we want to put into the world isn't talent. It's permission. And sometimes, the only person left to give it is ourselves.
