#13 The Publish Button: Press or Panic?
Hello again, my lovely literate legends! Yes, I'm back from the writing trenches, towing a dumpster of mixed metaphors to describe the literal plot twists of my literary life. If you’re here for earth-shattering news, you might have to look elsewhere, but if you’re here for a smile, you’re in the right place.
You could have been forgiven for wondering if I’ve drowned in a sea of submissions. Spoiler: I haven’t. But I’ve certainly done some wading. And sinking. And possibly floating face down for dramatic effect.
How have you been, mate? Older? Wiser? Wider? Way to go! Me too! Grab your favourite beverage, and let's chat. You know, I truly value our exchanges and am keen to hear your stories too—so please drop a comment about what's been happening with you. PLUS, get ready, because this time I need your advice, your wisdom, and possibly a life raft...
First, a quick recap where we left off: For those just tuning in, I‘d written an article for Neos Kosmos. And I’d just sent my baby—a spruced-up, you-beaut 90,000-word manuscript of my historical fiction novel Son of Hydra—to several top-tier titan publishers all personally recommended by my new editor! So as I jetted off to Europe, I was eagerly anticipating a flood of glorious acceptance emails.
The publishers’ response: Acceptance letters? Nup. Rejections? Not a peep. Did they read it? No clue. Hate it? Possibly. Or did my manuscript vanish into the Bermuda Triangle of publishing? Don't know. The only sound breaking the silence was me head-butting the keyboard.
Navigating self-publishing: I know patience is not your strong suit. Mine either. I was even more determined to get Son of Hydra into your hands, and none of us are getting any younger.
I don’t know if you realise that quite a few books you enjoy are self-published, often because authors want quicker publication times and it allows them to dodge the rejection process. And it allows for more control, which appeals to my inner micro-manager, and potentially higher earnings too, if you’re good at it and that’s what you want. Plenty of bestsellers—think The Martian or Fifty Shades—started as self-published comets before the big publishers came knocking.
At my age and stage of writing life, self-publishing isn't just about control or royalties—it's about avoiding the slow grind through the traditional publishing mincer.
But, on the other hand, crazy as it is, I dream of a traditional publisher. It isn’t just about the professional editing, cover, marketing, and distribution—it's a stamp of approval from the literary establishment, a nod that you’ve made it in the grown-up world of books.
Yet, that dream was clashing with reality, and I wasn't about to just sit around waiting for a miracle. So, instead of waiting for the stars to align, I decided to take matters into my own hands and self-publish. Remember that self-publishing course I signed up for? It was time to dust off those notes and dive in.
Facing the Amazon monster: So. There was my magnum opus, Son of Hydra, and there was Amazon. And then there was me, poised to navigate this daunting publishing platform—and not just navigate it, but actually reach my destination with a fanfare of trumpets.
So off I set, but honestly, I braced myself to face the snarling whirlpool that is Amazon's system of ISBNs, keywords, categories, algorithms, formatting, and cover design, inducing an alarming twitch in my right eye—I could muck this up royally. Flop city loomed large, and I'm not talking about $$$. I’m talking about the real measure of success: people reading my novel.
Solution: I needed a safer, less risky way to dip my toes into the world of publishing. There was only one thing to do. I would write another book to practise on! Yayyyy! What’s better than one manuscript lost in the abyss? Two, obviously.
Enter my 2018 Hydra travel diary: Back from my European trip, with the worst case of jet lag I've ever had, I began work on Hydra in Winter: A Writer's Search for a Greek Pirate. Remember my travel diaries? Seems a million years ago—originally a fairly incoherent ramble, written each night while freezing my toes off in Hydra’s off-season. Well, I had enormous fun stretching it out like pizza dough and putting into practice what I’ve learned in the five intervening years. So it’s now a plump 40,000-word memoir. So yes, it‘s done and dusted! And I loved writing it.
Have you guessed yet? Oh, mate, have you? As I meticulously crafted the structure and fine-tuned my character arc and reflected on our attitudes to aging, while revisiting the fabulous setting of Hydra, recalling memorable characters and those humorous encounters with locals, not to mention the scenic walks—once I had put the final touches on the memoir, a thrilling thought struck me. Could this travel memoir catch the eye of a traditional publisher? Better yet, could it be the traditionally published curtain raiser for Son of Hydra?
Submitting again: Before you could say final draft, I sent it off to two literary agents. One had breezily said, ‘Feel free to reach out for advice on your next project’—which is secret code for ‘Sure, but I’m about to disappear for two years.’ The other had given a similar invitation—though she’s probably forgotten my name in the meantime. But honestly, I get it. They’re buried in submissions, and they work day and night, and try to have a life as well, and it's all fuelled by a love of books as stubborn as mine. It’s an impossible task, and one they tackle out of pure passion. So, here I am, waiting again.
The question for you: How long do I give these agents whose slush piles look like the leaning tower of Pisa? And if they don’t respond, do I submit to traditional publishers after that—you can’t send it out to publishers before you try the agents, or you’ve muddied the literary waters. Seriously, no one tells you about the black holes in the publishing world—I am about to be sucked into the gaping vortex again.
Or do I just forget them all and jump off the self-publishing cliff right now?
I’d love to hear your opinion. Toss me a line!
A Light-Hearted Detour—Adventures Abroad: While you’re thinking about my dilettante dilemma, I promised I’d tell you about my sabbatical travels, which have been nothing short of mind-shatteringly, life-changingly exhilarating. Let me give you a quick rundown.
First, where was I to go, what to do, to shake the pencil shavings out of my hair? The focus was always going to be on writing—so a couple of writing retreats, which meant going solo, also proving to myself that I haven’t become too decrepit to cut it alone. I also wanted to meet up with the alumni of a Paris travel writing retreat. And catch up with darling rellies. So a month in Europe was accomplished with minimal mishaps (see brackets below).
Paris: My adventure began in the City of Light and Letters, where I marathon-walked 20km each day, wandered through Hemingway’s old haunts, indulged in sumptuous lunches with rellies and friends, and quaffed champagne while writing in the elegance of my chic apartment on the Ile de la Cité, overlooking the flowering chestnuts of Place Dauphine. (I did come a little unstuck on day one, in the same place as Marie Antoinette—the Conciergerie—when I slipped on a rain-slick stainless-steel grate and ended up, whooomp on my bottom. A dear local picked me up ‘Oo là là, Madame!’, and with no harm done, I began to watch more carefully where I put my feet.)
Florence: Thence to Florence, under the tutelage of the extraordinary Lisa Clifford, a supremely talented mentor and author whose charm, elegance and erudition make her a force of nature in storytelling. She called us together within the walls of an ancient palazzo in a room lit by a glorious chandelier—to sharpen our storytelling skills, or just be gobsmacked—as I was. Surrounded by streets where Renaissance masters like Michelangelo and Botticelli once strolled, our narrative techniques were honed to a Renaissance shine. I met a group of engaging fellow writers from places as diverse as the US, the UK and Austria. Even Florence and Rome. (We won’t talk about how I barely caught my train from Florence to Bologna, told a carriage of businessmen I didn’t speak English, in English, only to find myself on the wrong side of the doors sliding shut at Bologna, my passport still back at my seat, in the jacket dangling on the coat hook on the neighbouring chair...)
Greece: After touchdown in Athens I was off to the enchanting island of Hydra, where the muses sing directly into the early summer breezes, their whisperings on the air hinting at literary gold. Nestled in this nurturing cradle of the Aegean, favoured by George Johnston and Charmian Clift, I reconnected with the people I learned to love on my previous visit, and joined a writing retreat orchestrated by the inimitable Scott Stavrou—whose charm, wit and wisdom in writing are as profound as his intellect—and Lisa Howe, undoubtedly one of the most talented and nurturing editors one could ever encounter, both from Write Away Europe.
There, in the Aegean's soothing embrace (gahhhhh), I penned what I believe to be some of my finest work—undoubtedly spurred on by the artistic energy absorbed in both Florence and Hydra. And I promise, none of those treasures contained anything like the outrageous purple prose you've just read. Forgive my lyrical overkill.
A Return to Athens and Heartbreak: Before leaving Australia, I excitedly wrote to invite darling Mister Mavrideros, an Athens genealogist with whom I'd shared a snail mail correspondence back in 2018-19, out to lunch or dinner. With each letter he sent, he included a tiny treasure—things like an antique book or a miniature Greek flag. We became friends, and he confirmed that records suggested Ghikas was indeed the son of a wealthy shipowner. But this time, there was no reply to my letter. That silence lingered uncomfortably until I arrived in Athens when I finally reached his nephew and learned the heartbreaking news: Mister Mavrideros had unexpectedly passed away. That really hit me hard. Goodbye, Mister Mavrideros. Thank you for everything you shared with me; I’ve kept your bundle of letters, and your little flag still hangs in my office.
A Second Sojourn in Paris: I made a brief return to Paris before returning to Australia. On the left is the darling and chic-est (is that even a word?) Paris-dwelling soulmate in-law whom I simply adore. If being a flaneuse was an Olympic sport, I’d have so many gold medals dangling from my neck, I'd have to stop flaneuse-ing.
So my month-long escapade wrapped up with my soul filled to the brim. Plans went only slightly awry when air conditioning repairs ousted me from Oscar Wilde’s last hotel where he famously said that either the wallpaper went or he did (he did, but then, so did I!), but serendipity led me to Stendhal’s former residence on Rue Cambon, a fittingly literary end to my travels! Maison Armance is now one of my favourite hotels.
Central Australia: To celebrate John's 80th birthday, we decided to head straight Lake Eyre—because where better to mark a milestone than the centre onowhere? Our chariot was a 13-seat Cessna Caravan originally owned by Dick Smith—basically a caravan on wings, but with a better view. For three days, it took us flying low over landscapes that looked like they’d been painted by some giant outback artist—swirling red sands, green veins of the channel country, and the shimmering pastel blues of Lake Eyre, where water meets salt pan in a way that’s almost too beautiful to be real. We played I Spy with camels and pelicans that had clearly gotten the memo about the water levels via the bird internet. John, a pilot at heart, was delighted to listen in on every radio call from passing planes, while I tried to appreciate the surreal beauty of the landscape without imagining us becoming a feature of it. Charlie, our young and fearless pilot, kept us feeling safe while I convinced myself that low flying is great for character-building. Can't recommend Sea Air Aviation highly enough.
Daylesford Delights: Ah, Daylesford! Last week, ten of us from the All WRiTE Club, bonded three years ago over a six-month novel-writing course with the Australian Writer’s Centre, and scattered across every state of Australia like misplaced punctuation marks, were reunited. We have a chatroom that’s never quiet—mostly talk about writing—Scrivener or plot holes or obscure grammar rules—but cake recipes do sometimes creep in.
This was our first live-in meet-up, crammed together in a beautiful Victorian cottage (each with an ensuite bathroom because we’re fancy like that), ready to write, eat, and, let’s be honest, drink our body weight in wine.
We already knew each other well—writing brings you closer than family, without the Christmas lunches—but our week took things to a whole new level. Mornings and afternoons were spent in ‘productive silence’, each of us bent over our laptops around the big dining table, with only the occasional interruption—a dropped phone, a ping from some neglected notification, or someone loudly pondering if we were out of A’Mhara’s mother’s cake (we were).
Early each morning, or when our brains turned to mush, we’d stroll around the misty sub-zero temperature of Lake Daylesford—oh the flowers in spring, the historic buildings—or wander into town, pretending that browsing the shops counted as ‘research’. And in the evenings, the real magic (and the wine) flowed. Catherine whipped up lamb backstrap one night and scones one afternoon, Jude grilled salmon on another, and we even ventured out for a meal or two that didn’t involve balancing a plate on our laps. We read our work aloud, laughed like drains at the ridiculous bits, and shared feedback that was brutally honest but still felt like a warm hug.
By the end of the week, we were more determined than ever to see each other’s names on the bookstore shelves, our bonds even stronger. It’s a brilliant club—full of kindness, generosity, and rapier-like minds. One where you can pour your heart out over a rejection letter with your morning coffee, and by dinner, plot literary world domination together. Long may our (annual, we think) retreats continue.
Navigating the cobblestones of Paris, the historic streets of Florence, the literary landscapes of Hydra; even the vast, open skies of Central Australia and the misty mornings of Daylesford, all mirror the unpredictable path to publishing—you need a stout heart and a spirit of adventure for all of them. And definitely a sense of humour.
Back to the present: And so, the saga continues. I write at the keyboard for nine glorious hours a day— not out of duty but sheer delight. And Ghikas’ wife, Mary, is again popping into my mind at ungodly hours, more persistent than my morning alarm. Before I know it, I'm awake at 1am and downstairs at five past, coffee in one hand, pen in the other, scribbling under her spell until Homer’s rose-fingered dawn touches the shutters—Mary is much more demanding than any publisher could ever be.
The best thing is that through all the highs and lows of trying to get published, I've learned one thing: I’m utterly besotted with the act of writing itself. It makes my heart sing. John often wonders aloud why I bother with the hassle of publishing at all. 'Just keep writing,' he says, 'that’s what you love, isn’t it?' And honestly? He’s got a point.
Except I want to share it with you too.
So that’s it buddies! I’m eager to hear your thoughts on traditional versus self-publishing—your opinion truly means a lot to me, especially since you have stayed with me on this anticlimactic bumpy ride—which isn't exactly shaking the foundations of the universe. But enough about my small corner of the world—I’d love to hear what’s been happening in yours. Some of you I follow through Instagram, others not. So please drop your news, thoughts, musings, and muses in the comments below. Please do it now!
Thanks for sticking with me—I really, really like that you do.
Until next time, I wait you.
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