This poem is dedicated to all the authors who have decided to eschew the traditional publishing channels in order to create, publish and market a book on their own terms – and keep the lion’s share of the earnings. It’s also for all the authors who had no other choice but to self-publish because all the literary agents and publishing houses laughed in their manuscript’s face.
You work without an agent and you work without a ‘house’
Your book was edited by friends, your sister and your spouse
You chose the cover of the book; in fact, you helped design it
A couple dozen fans have even asked if you could sign it
The team in charge of marketing consists of you alone
Better you than someone who is just a corporate drone
A corporate drone will push your book for just a couple weeks
And once the sales begin to slow, it’s chucked upon a heap
When you go the indie route, great sales can come in waves
If you play the social game and tweet and blog and rave
Get in the news and good reviews and you just might take off, sir
But if it’s riches that you’re after, why become an author?
Signing with an agent or a house won’t make you great.
They are just the entities that like to guard the gate
But times they are a changin’, and in order to go far
No longer do you have to kiss the ass of any guard.
What you have to do is write – often and superbly
If you tell me otherwise, you’ll certainly perturb me
And you don’t want to do that, see, cause I’ll give you the hook
Remember I’m a writer, too – I’ll kill you in a book
Ode to the indie author – I celebrate your spirit
I celebrate your novel, too, although might not go near it
Your book may be unreadable, but I respect your pluck
But really, here’s to indie scribes whose books don’t even suck.
