Writing Life
Publishing: one bookstore at a time
by Judith D. Schwartz

So I wrote this book. Writing it was easy, as it is when you've got a story you absolutely must tell. It's called The Therapist's New Clothes, and it's about training as a psychotherapist. Basically, I became a therapist to fix a depression I didn't want to know about—with predictably disastrous results (at least in the short run—there is a happy ending!) In the book, I explore my love/hate relationship with psychotherapy through what happened to me, the profoundly rewarding experience of helping clients as well as the self-delusions that bound me to a process that led straight downhill.

I found an agent. We came close with big houses but never hit a match: small when they wanted big; unsettling when they wanted shocking; ironic when they wanted outrage. I still believed in the book, a cautionary tale for therapists and clients that had yet to be told. And I had a strong record in selling books, both others' and my own, so I was doubly frustrated. Yet eventually I moved on and let it drift into the realm of "oh well."

Meanwhile, I started reading about the publishing industry's troubles and new publishing models. I thought, "Maybe someday…" I'm hardly a trendsetter. And I had that nagging feeling that a real writer wouldn't have to self-publish. But publishing was a mess, so why give a dysfunctional system power over my work? Then I learned about The Espresso Book Machine (EBM), an instant-book contraption that some said would revolutionize the industry. And the sole independent bookstore in the country with this machine was … my local bookstore.

I headed over to the Northshire Bookstore in Manchester, VT, to chat with the manager, Chris Morrow. The financials seemed straightforward—$300 to $400 for the set-up, ISBN, etc., and a per-book cost that would allow for a profit. Profit that would go to me, not a publisher. As Chris described the EBM's potential for authors and bookstores, my journalistic antennae shot up: What a wealth of stories! Great! I pitch media and get press on the book without doing actual self-promotion. I told Chris I could give the store lots of publicity. He laughed and said, "You have to learn to market yourself."

The Dive
I dove in and started a blog. I wrote about printing technologies and posted images of old presses. I interviewed the EBM's inventor and wrote about inventors in my family. I did Q & A's with publishers I admire. I linked the EBM model to building local economies, a theme I'd been writing about, and got lots of online hits. I wrote a trade article that noted the environmental benefits of publishing on demand. Where would this lead? I didn't know.

I found a designer, Amy Anselmo, who was game to do the cover as barter. She came up with a beautiful cover—but the artist who owned the image wouldn't let me use it. I pined away over the unattainable image until Amy worked her magic on a photograph my husband took. Choosing the type and specs went incredibly fast. The Northshire's POD manager asked me what size book I wanted. I went to the store shelves and picked out a memoir. Oops—that would cost me $15.75 a book (225 pages at 7 cents a page). To cut down the number of pages, a bigger (6" X 9") size it would have to be. I chose a font (Centaur) and decided that at the top of the page I'd have the title on the left and chapter on the right (who thinks about these details?). Within 30 seconds I settled on a cover price: $14.95. Each book would cost me $10.08, leaving nearly $5 profit. I watched the proofing copy drop from the binder like a candy bar from a vending machine and with the same satisfying thunk.

The Dilemma
First, the good news: the book looks great. My designer is not just gifted but generous. Without my asking, she designed an event poster and bookmarks. Everyone who reads the book loves it and, in a way I've never experienced, is invested in its success.

Now the frustration: The challenge is that the system for making this model work doesn't exist yet. I am dependent on one very narrow channel of distribution. The book is on Amazon with a surcharge, though that has come down (and with shipping discounts, it's not so bad). Anyone can buy it through the Northshire website—as easy as Amazon—but many people, accustomed to buying from websites they know, see this as an inconvenience. The Northshire has set up national distribution through the Ingram/Lightning Source POD program. I was excited about this until one bookstore owner pointed out that these books have a lower profit margin (25 percent compared to the usual 40 percent) so I have to personally make a case for each store to carry it. Three more stores—Village Books in Bellingham, WA; Boxcar and Caboose in St. Johnsbury, VT; and the Harvard Bookstore in Cambridge, MA—now have the Espresso Book Machine and I will be courting those too. Again, one bookstore at a time.

That $10-plus per book, which looked fine when I was thinking of copies sold, is also an impediment. Sending a book out for review is an investment; I'm reluctant to do it unless the outlet seems a sure thing with a decent payoff. (I wistfully recall how profligate my publishers were with books. Where's my mailroom when I need one?) Will reviewers take PDF submissions as seriously—or even read them?

One other thing: readers don't care about how a book is made; they want to know about a book. I've learned that I can't hide behind an idea or technology. I've got to get word out about the memoir on its own terms, as an unflinching look at the seductiveness of psychotherapy.

I don't regret the route I chose. The venture spurred me to get the book out of the drawer. I have a strong design and many allies. I feel empowered in that I'm not at the mercy of the big publishing companies. And I'm taking part in a dialogue about moving publishing into the future.

ASJA member Judith D. Schwartz lives in Bennington, VT. Her blog on publishing with the Espresso Book Machine is at: http://litadventures inpod.blogspot.com