Why We Need Independent Publishers

Many writers have been able to publish books and build careers because an indie publisher saw something in our work.

closeup of a person's hands holding an open paperback book
(Grace Carey / Getty)

Along with most everyone I know who works in or otherwise relies on book publishing for their livelihood, I’ve been following the Biden administration’s antitrust case against the proposed Penguin Random House/Simon & Schuster merger. Last week, as John H. Maher of Publishers Weekly live-tweeted us through the opening days of the trial, my timeline was filled with [skull-emoji] quote-tweets of things that many of us aren’t used to hearing folks in publishing say out loud. PRH lawyers have argued that “after the merger, the market dynamic will be just the same,” while the DOJ maintains that combining two of the “Big Five” publishers into one would decrease the number of offers an author might receive, lower book advances, and make it harder for writers to support themselves. In a pretrial brief, the DOJ stated that if the merger goes forward, it “would … give the merged company control of nearly half of the market to acquire anticipated top-selling books from authors”—a point underlined by Stephen “My name is Stephen King, I’m a freelance writer” King when he took the stand last Tuesday. “Consolidation is bad for competition,” he said.

Last year, King tweeted about another possible side effect of big publisher mergers: “The more the publishers consolidate, the harder it is for indie publishers to survive.” In his testimony last week, he stated, “When I started in this business, there were literally hundreds of imprints, and some of them were run by people with extremely idiosyncratic tastes, one might say. Those businesses were either subsumed one by one or they ran out of business. I think it becomes tougher and tougher for writers to find enough money to live on.”

A majority of authors won’t find themselves fielding multiple major offers from big-name publishers vying for their books. Many of us will get far more modest deals from the Big Five, or publish with smaller independent presses or micro presses. Some will remain with indies for their whole careers; others may debut with an indie publisher before moving to a larger house that can offer a higher advance. (It can also go the other way: Authors may be less than thrilled with their publication experience at a bigger publisher and move to an independent or academic press in part because they hope to receive more focused or sustained attention, or help finding a new readership.) As an indie-press debut author and former employee, I winced a bit at arguments comparing independent publishers to “farm teams” that are merely helping talented writers make it to “big time” publishers. What’s undeniable is that many writers have been able to publish books and build careers because an indie-publishing team saw something in our work and decided to run with it.

Publishers take risks as a matter of course, spending money to buy, create, and promote a book before they know how it will actually sell. They also consider potential profitability and losses before making an offer on a title—as a former editor once expressed to me, “Nobody wants to be the one who overpaid on a clunker.” Larger publishers especially invest an enormous share of resources into books seen as likely best sellers. This can make it tougher for writers who are trying to sell their first book, or are doing something new or genre-defying, or are otherwise unable to point to a shelf of commercially successful comp titles (which can be harder for writers of color and underrepresented writers to do). Independent publishers need their books to sell too, of course, but the investments they are hoping to recoup are typically smaller, as are their lists. While they have more limited budgets, they are also creative and often fiercely dedicated to every book they work on.

I am an author because an indie publisher took a chance on me. I’d been working as an editor and freelancing for several years when my agent and I began pitching my first book proposal to a range of publishers. A couple of editors said they loved my writing but couldn’t get the in-house support they needed for a memoir by a writer who wasn’t especially well known. Another wasn’t convinced that anyone would read it unless they were Korean or adopted like me. Editors pass on books for any number of understandable reasons; I had expected plenty of rejections. But I couldn’t help wondering if the opportunity to publish this story I cared about so deeply was slipping away.

By the time I got an offer from Catapult, a then-one-year-old indie press, terms like “quiet” and “niche project” were so drilled into my brain that it was hard for me not to see my book in those terms. I was genuinely surprised to learn that my publisher didn’t view it that way. [Note: Five months after Catapult bought my book, the company hired me to work on its digital magazine. I worked there for five years and stepped down from my role as digital editorial director in 2021.] My wonderful editor, Julie Buntin, helped me make the book as good as it could be and championed it at every stage. The publicity and marketing teams made miracles happen. I’m forever indebted to all the booksellers and librarians who supported it, and to the readers who’ve spent time with it. Selling my second book was a radically different experience. When I expressed my shock to a fellow writer, she said, “You have a sales record now.”

The process of creating art and then asking others to assign it a somewhat made-up market value is admittedly one of the most bizarre aspects of a writer’s job, for all that it is necessary for those of us trying to make a living. It seems likely that the math could prove even less favorable to authors—especially debut authors, especially those from marginalized backgrounds—if smaller publishers cannot thrive and maintain their independence. Indies routinely bet on daring literature and play a crucial role in launching, building, and sustaining the careers of writers whose work we need. The work being published by these presses—places such as Tin House, Graywolf, Milkweed Editions, Coffee House, Akashic Books, New Directions, Melville House, and The Feminist Press—is one thing that gives me hope for the future of publishing. Whether or not one industry giant is ultimately able to acquire another, whether we end up with a Big Five, a Big Four, or a Big One and Everyone Else, the publishing ecosystem needs strong, flourishing independent presses—and authors and readers do too.

Nicole Chung is a contributing writer at The Atlantic and the author of its newsletter I Have Notes. She is the author of A Living Remedy.