The old fashioned way
It feels like, often, that I've gotten my teeth kicked in from the publishing world. In spite of that, I keep trying. And trying and trying. However, from time to time I do entertain the notion of self publishing, or vanity publishing. Basically, you pay the self publisher (there are several; Author House is the one I am familiar with) and they publish your book for you for a fee. There are several different plans you can choose from depending on how swank you want your book to look, how much marketing you'd like, and how much editing and polishing you say you want done to your script. Bascially, it's a way to circumvent the traditional publishing route and get your work out there. Author House, for example, also boasts that your book will be put online in such places as Amazon.com and other publishing areas, all online, so that your book can sell. It all sounds nice, and they even have glowing testimonials at their sites from people who have been published by them, saying how great it was and how nice it was to have the control over their work.
Ofcourse, this is risky. Book stores such as Borders and Barnes and Noble and the like won't go near a book that's published by a vanity publisher, and reviews or usually non existant. There's also an air of "I couldn't get published by a REAL publisher, so I did it myself." And yet...there are always the exceptions. Chris Pallioni (sp?) author of the legendary Eragorn series, got his start with a vanity publisher, and now his books sell millions. And when you consider now that traditional publishing houses almost never send an author on tours now (not even Barbara Walters when her book came out)that it makes me wonder if I shouldn't just do it all myself.
Looking more deeply into it, I found a site that talked about the dangers of vanity presses. To illustrate, a group of published authors got together and intentionally wrote a terrible manuscript together and sent it off to a vanity publisher, one that claimed they only published worth while novels, and scrutinized every manuscript for typos and grammer. Here is a sample of that story, called "Atlanta Nights." Enjoy...
Pain.
Whispering voices.
Pain.
Pain. Pain. Pain.
Need pee--new pain--what are they sticking in me? . . .
Sleep.
Pain.
Whispering voices.
“As you know, Nurse Eastman, the government spooks controlling this hospital
will not permit me to give this patient the care I think he needs.”
“Yes, doctor.” The voice was breathy, sweet, so sweet and sexy.
We will therefore just monitor his sign’s. Serious trauma like this patient
suffered requires extra care, but the rich patsies controlling the hospital will make certain
I cannot try any of my new treatments on him.”
“Yes, doctor.” That voice was soooo sexy!
Bruce didn’t care about treatments. He cared about pain, and he cared about that
voice, because when he heard the voice, the pain went away, just for a few seconds, like.
“Report to me if there is any change,” the man’s voice said.
“Yes, Dr. Nance,” said the sexy voice.
A door closed, and Bruce heard breathing, and smelled the enticing smell of shampoo, and perfume.
He opened his eyes.
All he saw was the roundest, firmest pair of tittles he’d ever seen in his life, all
enclosed in a crisp white nurse’s uniform.
I’m in heaven, he said. No, he tried to say, but his voice wouldn’t work, his
mouth was dry, and there was some terrible tube thing in his nose-and hey, what’s that
thing in his dick? It hurts!
The tits bounced like Aunt Alice’s molded jello back at home, and then moved
away. Oh. She was just straightening the covers on the bed.
Bed.
Bruce realized he laid in a bed, his left arm being strapped down, with something
sticking an up-a tube--on the top of his hand.
Bruce looked up. The tits belonged to a beautiful face carved out of ice and whipped
cream, with a pair of glowing emerald eyes. Around that perfect face was brown hair
like one of those super models, all puffed up.
Anyway, so that's it. If you'd like the read the WHOLE story, let me know and I'll fire it off to you. It certainly does make me rethink the whole vanity press thing.
Ofcourse, this is risky. Book stores such as Borders and Barnes and Noble and the like won't go near a book that's published by a vanity publisher, and reviews or usually non existant. There's also an air of "I couldn't get published by a REAL publisher, so I did it myself." And yet...there are always the exceptions. Chris Pallioni (sp?) author of the legendary Eragorn series, got his start with a vanity publisher, and now his books sell millions. And when you consider now that traditional publishing houses almost never send an author on tours now (not even Barbara Walters when her book came out)that it makes me wonder if I shouldn't just do it all myself.
Looking more deeply into it, I found a site that talked about the dangers of vanity presses. To illustrate, a group of published authors got together and intentionally wrote a terrible manuscript together and sent it off to a vanity publisher, one that claimed they only published worth while novels, and scrutinized every manuscript for typos and grammer. Here is a sample of that story, called "Atlanta Nights." Enjoy...
Pain.
Whispering voices.
Pain.
Pain. Pain. Pain.
Need pee--new pain--what are they sticking in me? . . .
Sleep.
Pain.
Whispering voices.
“As you know, Nurse Eastman, the government spooks controlling this hospital
will not permit me to give this patient the care I think he needs.”
“Yes, doctor.” The voice was breathy, sweet, so sweet and sexy.
We will therefore just monitor his sign’s. Serious trauma like this patient
suffered requires extra care, but the rich patsies controlling the hospital will make certain
I cannot try any of my new treatments on him.”
“Yes, doctor.” That voice was soooo sexy!
Bruce didn’t care about treatments. He cared about pain, and he cared about that
voice, because when he heard the voice, the pain went away, just for a few seconds, like.
“Report to me if there is any change,” the man’s voice said.
“Yes, Dr. Nance,” said the sexy voice.
A door closed, and Bruce heard breathing, and smelled the enticing smell of shampoo, and perfume.
He opened his eyes.
All he saw was the roundest, firmest pair of tittles he’d ever seen in his life, all
enclosed in a crisp white nurse’s uniform.
I’m in heaven, he said. No, he tried to say, but his voice wouldn’t work, his
mouth was dry, and there was some terrible tube thing in his nose-and hey, what’s that
thing in his dick? It hurts!
The tits bounced like Aunt Alice’s molded jello back at home, and then moved
away. Oh. She was just straightening the covers on the bed.
Bed.
Bruce realized he laid in a bed, his left arm being strapped down, with something
sticking an up-a tube--on the top of his hand.
Bruce looked up. The tits belonged to a beautiful face carved out of ice and whipped
cream, with a pair of glowing emerald eyes. Around that perfect face was brown hair
like one of those super models, all puffed up.
Anyway, so that's it. If you'd like the read the WHOLE story, let me know and I'll fire it off to you. It certainly does make me rethink the whole vanity press thing.