My Experience with Self-Publishing Houses

FeaturedMy Experience with Self-Publishing Houses

Self-publishing is a scary yet exciting prospect. From going straight onto Amazon’s KDP to pursuing a plan with self-publisher houses, making the right decision on your manuscript and where you want to take it can be a bit overwhelming. I wanted to share my experience with self-publishers for my upcoming collection and share with you why I made the decision I made.

For starters, I reached out to three different options, who I will not name for the fire I am about to unleash (just kidding, it’s not so bad). To find these houses, you can search on Google for “publishers of x” (in my case, poetry) and find a few databases that can determine best fits. I heard back nearly immediately from all three that I had reached out to and was quickly thrust into email chains and phone calls. It was a very rushed experience from the jump.

The three options I picked from each seemingly had a multitude of options to also narrow down. One offered 5-6 different plans and most shockingly, all offered quotes immediately. Now, one key difference between traditional publishers and self-publishing houses is the way authors are paid (or rather pay) for services. Instead of a collaboration, it’s more of an investment. Many offered 100% royalties, but upfront costs felt excessive.

The one option I was considering the most was ranged into four digits (as almost every option I received was), but even this had it’s problems. Firstly, as with the other options, all three houses “approved” of my manuscript. Personally, I’m not sure how rigorous this testing was, but I did receive answers fairly quickly, with the exception of one taking around 24-48 hours. You might be thinking approvals are a good thing, right? Well, yes and no. It means that they are willing to post your work…if your willing to pay and shoulder all the risks/losses to come.

My collection is young adult, 18+ and most detrimentally, poetry. These are all signs of an exodus from mass market appeal, and yet all three approved with only minor points (or even no points) of constructive critique at this initial stage. The offers ranged from straight up publishing on Amazon (something very possible as an independent publisher) to luxury marketing/PR offers that were exorbitant in retail (but in the case I’m referring to, discounted heavily).

The main point of advice I’d give to aspiring writers looking to publish is to be careful. Really think about how well your manuscript can appeal to mass audiences and take advantage of the resources houses like this can give. Go into it not looking to bend, but instead looking for the perfect fit or none at all. There’s no reason to push an oval into a circle; if it’s not perfect, back off.

That’s why I decided to roll with purely self-publishing through Amazon for my next book. Sure, it’s more work and time needed for promo, setup and all things needed to ensure the book is publishable to begin with. But, it’s also free or significantly cheaper than houses who have to pay for the folks they have in house, plus profit. I don’t think these houses are scammers or crooks. Far from it, and I think people may disagree with me here. But I do think they oversell their services, and I do think, unless you absolutely need services like this, to avoid them when you can’t take FULL advantage of their offerings AND think breaking-even or profit is likely.

Hope this helps those looking to publish but don’t have the pedigree for an agent to partner you up with more established and collaborative publisher structures. Feel free to reach out to me @florsjkevin on Twitter or comment below with any questions/special cases you may have.

Have a great rest of your day, and stay tuned on my new collection, coming out December 2022.

Merry Christmas and he’s sorry

Merry Christmas and he’s sorry

Elvish imps plagued the twins.

Laughing at their enforced chaos.

The twins, kicking and punching and stabbing.

And stabbing.

 

A green ticket laid in the brother’s hand,

Cold and spastic.

Diabolical deeds never die

While gifts are so grander than sky.

 

He left, with car skidding and hand steering

and fist that bled and choked

a glowing green ticket that flutters in the brother’s hand.

Cold and sanguine.

 

Thoughts of cars and mansions

and man and son

and families

and brothers.

 

Heartless

was the dagger, rotting in Steven.

Heartless was the statue planned for Steven.

Was the killer, brother of Steven, Heartless.

 

He looked at his glowing red fist,

Opened the gift,

Nothing.

No eternal riches.

No winning ticket.

 

The vessel that went by Carson was later found in a lake.

A lake which, on Christmas night, glowed red and green.

 

-Kevin J Flors

 

Source Image

Empty

Empty

Empty our definitions of ignorance.

My horoscope paints a wretched fortitude.

The liar in a field of lepers,

The hound of a parliamentary.

I face a faceless evil,

Lathered muck coats the laughable sadist.

What justifies his poisonous stupor?

His porous odor?

A pontiferous codification?

Organic waves a salutation.

The factory pursues her coitus.

Open conversions of the Nihilists,

The betterment forms an empty knowledge.

Personages filter my delicate dreaming.

A fragile transit unordered,

Under cardboard and excrement,

My eyes ferociously scan for fantastical obsolescence.

A functional lawman suffocates in stationary.

Mindful teething of Californian cattle,

Candlelit by distant obelisks.

An empty ocean poses comatose.

A steward stole my reclamation.

Louder I bellowed a restitution for stagnation.

Emptiness occupies my condolences,

Feeling what minds allow us.

Venerable is our Creator,

But whom do I revere?

Losing is a tariff on our innocence.

Winning is a tariff on our innocence.

Living is a tariff on our innocence.

Empty are definitions of our innocence.

Empty is our definition.

— Kevin J. Flors

 

Thanks for reading

Photograph from Pexels

part two

part two

Guessing my seconds

failing to forget

the years I’ve wasted

the times spent crying.

A ledge staring at me

no more waiting

no more wailing

a loudness in the silence.

Show more feeling

for the sorrows

my depressing

spirit gouges.

Hallow sprites

carefully caress

the son you gave me…                                 what I gave my son.

I’d caressed, cared fully

but spry was the hollow

gouging his spirit.

His deep resting.

My sorrows for

feelings you’d shown

but silent was your loud

he wails no more

waits no more

a pledge to my star.

Crying spent my time

wasted my years

my forgotten failures

my second guessing.

–Kevin J Flors

Thanks for reading.

Photograph from Pexels

Abandonment and Dejection

Abandonment and Dejection

Abandonment and dejection,

A boy’s name,

Desired more times than death,

More times in death.

 

Fermented in a bar,

With enthusiastic gullet.

How great grapes so hallow,

Transform one so hollow.

 

Little passion ever seen,

Showed its face in torrents,

Bony, but bellowing,

Desperately hanging.

 

Man was no medicine,

Nor was a muffled moonlight,

Nor a yearned sensuality,

Nor the coveted wine.

 

Sailors bunched around a bonfire,

Salt kindles a foul smell,

Engineered hands built to slave,

Built to hold.

 

The joined act of lasting,

Of loving,

Of losing,

Of still holding.

 

–Kevin J Flors

Thanks for reading.

Photograph from Pexels

Red Pins

Red Pins

Hailing reigns sharpen his mind.

Amusing deconstructions of the Word.

The clandestinity of the cumulus.

What paltry its nimbus resembles?

 

What mindfulness we don’t own?

Smallest egos amongst the sheep of the conceited.

Excommunication of the heretics,

A banishment praising our synthetic lords.

 

Shallow are the shores of our capacity.

Our mind formed by the Baker.

Needed are our wants.

A wanted silence envelops the kneading.

 

A candid kingship, mercy does not know.

Salivated hunger pains the belly’s flame.

Lustful journey’s romance with torture,

Never ceases in congregation.

 

To question the capacity of power.

The seeming unattainability of it.

The obstacles we burn to breathe it.

What futility it bears?

 

–Kevin J Flors

Thanks for reading.

Photograph from Pexels

 

Futility

Futility

Birthing mandates depression,

Sinful monsters directing films,

For our eyes cannot be stopped.

 

Looking for answers,

Lost in lust and greed and family,

Responsibility never slumbers.

 

The name of our desire is Waning,

We will all die before he,

He will tease us into believing.

 

They only speak in exploitation,

Don’t bother learning it,

You were born to never understand.

 

Minds play a king of deception,

Besides the two my mother gave me,

I’ve lost all my hands.

 

Personifications of sound.

What really is a voice,

Without a gilded crown?

 

A wise man once said,

He was the leader.

Following defines our nature.

 

Comatose defines our coitus.

 

Complacency defines our torture.

 

— Kevin J. Flors

 

Thanks for reading.

Photograph from Pexels

Alienation’s Bellow Cries Death

Alienation’s Bellow Cries Death

Alarming bells’ counting daze,

Entrancing followers’ gilded hearts.

Illusionary jungles kill lions.

Monarchical nihilism overshadows persistence.

Quickly reins shake tyranny,

Undress vixens worriedly.

Xerxes’s yielding zeal.

 

A broken clock doesn’t

Entertain fathers. Grieving homes.

Intrusive jingles. Knives lunging.

My neck opens purple,

Quivering. Restlessly stoic tumult.

Unheard vehemence withers.

Xenolith’s youth zombified.

–Kevin J. Flors

 

Thanks for reading.

Photo from Pexels.

 

 

 

Inevitable Lateness

Inevitable Lateness

 

I now understand,

 

My mother’s indigestion of stress,

Spat out in undesirable forms,

A bullet aimed at our apathy,

Its journey never short.

 

The dependence of alcohol,

An escape from skeletons,

Walking skeletons,

Or what feigns natural.

 

My father’s infidelity,

Disintegrating pathways.

The artistry to combine,

The chemical with the physical.

 

Smokers,

Burning their lungs and nerves,

Curing combustible flames,

When water fails to salve.

 

My mother’s anger,

Her sadness,

Nervousness,

Loneliness.

 

Depression.

Late shipments of reminiscence,

Of overbearing failures,

Of regrets.

 

I now understand,

 

All the forgotten dreams,

Floating in stagnant wells,

Incapable of rippling,

Pressured by an unbending mold.

–Kevin J Flors

 

 

Thanks for reading.

Photograph from Pexels.

Thaw

Thaw

Falsettos of the falsely fallen,

Fantasize a frozen form,

Forever feeling from fountains,

Freed from forming foreclosure.

 

Fortitude’s folly fends fear,

Far from followed fences.

Fiercely firing fists of fire,

For foolish fascinations of forever.

 

Filtration funded by fingers,

But filth finds foundation,

Formations of fortune,

Forever framing their forefathers.

 

Fancy fowls of forever,

Forget forming failing flowers,

A fellowship of the finite,

Who find fountains in feelings.

–Kevin J Flors

Thanks for reading.

Photo from Pexels