©2026 xunholyanubisx

When I think about social classes and the stereotypes surrounding who gets to call themselves a “real author,” I feel a familiar frustration rising in my chest. There’s an unspoken hierarchy in the literary world—one that suggests legitimacy comes from a traditional publishing deal, a physical book on a shelf, and an advance from a recognizable publishing house. Beneath that suggestion lies a more damaging assumption: that anyone who chooses to self-publish or take the indie route must have done so because they couldn’t succeed the “right” way.

But my decision to pursue indie publishing has nothing to do with rejection or a lack of talent. It has everything to do with ownership, clarity, and survival.

I’ve seen traditional contracts filled with clauses that even seasoned lawyers hesitate over—rights grabs, non-compete terms, and royalty structures so complex that what appears to be 15% quickly dwindles to pennies after printing costs, distribution fees, and “reserves against returns.” Yet, when I say, “I’d rather keep 70% of my eBook royalties and understand exactly where every dollar goes,” I’m met with a subtle but unmistakable judgment: Oh, so you’re not a real author. You’re just uploading to Amazon.

That stereotype cuts deep because it ignores class realities. Not everyone can afford to wait eighteen months for a publisher’s advance that might not even cover three months of rent. Not everyone has the financial safety net to hand over audio, translation, and film rights in exchange for prestige while hoping the book eventually earns out. When you come from a working- or middle-class background—or any situation where financial stability isn’t guaranteed—choosing a path with a higher percentage per sale isn’t greed. It’s strategy. It’s self-respect. It’s understanding that writing won’t pay my bills unless I protect my margins.

And here’s the part that truly haunts me: I’ve seen brilliant writers—people with stories that could change lives—walk away entirely because they were told indie publishing was lesser. They signed nothing, published nothing, and eventually stopped writing. They believed the lie that if you can’t land an agent and secure a six-figure deal, you shouldn’t bother. That isn’t just elitism; it’s a gatekeeping machine disguised as tradition. It discourages writers not by criticizing their craft, but by shaming their business choices.

I refuse to feel ashamed for wanting to understand my contracts. I refuse to feel diminished because I prefer direct control over my work. And I refuse to accept that the value of my writing has anything to do with which corporate logo appears on the spine.

The truth is, a story doesn’t care how it reaches a reader. A writer’s worth isn’t measured by their publishing path—it’s measured by their willingness to keep writing, even when the world insists they’re doing it wrong. So I remain here, indie and unapologetic, hoping that one fewer writer gives up because of a stereotype that was never meant to serve them in the first place.