Jane Friedman's Blog: Jane Friedman, page 14

New podcast: Future Knowledge

Authors Alliance and Internet Archive have launched a podcast, Future Knowledge.

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New distributor: Stable Distribution

Stable Book Group, in partnership with Hachette, has announced the formation of a new distribution company for independent publishers.

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Links of Interest: June 11, 2025

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Own the Title of Writer (Don’t Add “Aspiring”)

Photo by Gelatin

Today’s guest post is excerpted from the new book Write with Confidence by Lisa Fellinger.

We’ve all been there. You’re at a party, an event, or even just standing in the school pick up line, and someone strikes up a casual conversation. Sooner or later, they ask: “What do you do?”

One of the most dreaded questions for a writer—second only, perhaps, to “What’s your book about?”

I could go on about how a person isn’t defined solely by their career, but like it or not, this question has become a socially accepted shortcut to getting to know someone. And while we can’t control what others ask, we can control how we respond.

The dreaded “what do you do” question tends to bring up all kinds of feelings: imposter syndrome, self-consciousness, embarrassment—it brings it all to the surface. But those feelings aren’t there because of the question itself. They’re there because, deep down, whether we recognize it consciously or not, we’re uncomfortable calling ourselves a writer. When someone asks what we do, and we haven’t made peace with that title, it can feel threatening. If we haven’t yet figured out what being a writer means for us, the question will trigger our insecurities and put us on the defensive. Sharing that we write also opens the door to more questions, ones we may not feel ready to answer.

Another reason this question can spark our defenses is that while we might have a straightforward answer to the question (i.e., “I’m an accountant!”), if we’re also a writer, that simple answer doesn’t feel like the whole truth. But adding in, “I also write,” can feel awkward or vulnerable. It’s a lose-lose: keep it simple but feel like you’re hiding part of yourself or tell the truth and risk feeling like a fraud.

I’ll never forget the first time I called myself a writer to someone who wasn’t my family or a close friend. I was in a graduate school class, and we were discussing the demands of the program and what challenges we were facing. I don’t know what was going through my mind that night, but the first thing that tumbled out of my mouth was, “I’m a writer, and I miss having time for my writing.”

Now, at this time, I hadn’t even completed a manuscript. I’d been writing stories my whole life, but I was on a path to become a counselor. My plan was to finish school, get a “real” job (whatever that meant), and then I’d have time to focus on my writing. I didn’t consciously consider myself a writer in that moment. And I was mortified that I’d just declared myself one in this room full of serious, career-minded graduate students. What was I thinking?

Then my professor raised his eyebrows and said, “Wow! What do you write? I also write!”

I don’t remember the rest of the conversation. I was too focused on the fact that I’d just pretended to be a real writer out loud, in public, in front of someone who I’d just learned had actually published books. I’m sure my cheeks were as red as an apple.

I don’t know if any of my classmates remember that moment. But I sure do. Because that was the first time I truly claimed the title of writer. And it happened when I least expected it.

That moment didn’t spark me to take immediate action, quit school, and decide to write full-time. But it stuck with me. In the back of my mind was the realization that even though I was in full pursuit of a different career, being a writer was still the thing that mattered most to me. And I think that moment was a quiet nudge from my subconscious that my real purpose might lie elsewhere.

It’s gotten easier to tell people I’m a writer over the years. But even now, with a published book under my belt, it still feels a little vulnerable. I still have to remind myself that I am a writer, and I have no reason to feel ashamed sharing that.

Because here’s the truth: we can’t confidently tell others we’re writers until we’re comfortable telling ourselves. Until we can say “I write” without immediately qualifying it (“It’s just a hobby,” or “But I haven’t published anything yet”), it will always feel intimidating to share.

So, how do we get comfortable with calling ourselves writers?

Practice.

I know it feels silly, but look yourself in the mirror and say, “I’m a writer.” Say it again. And again. The more you do it, the less awkward it feels.

Sometimes, it’s just about finding words that don’t feel clunky. Coming up with a short script can be helpful. That way, when someone asks what you do, you’re prepared—you’ve already decided what you feel comfortable sharing and how.

But if you keep practicing and it still feels hard, it might be more than just needing the right words. If this is the case, pay attention to what thoughts or feelings come up when you say, “I’m a writer.” Do you feel the urge to qualify it? Do you worry it sounds pretentious? Are you biting your tongue, waiting to be called a fraud?

These thoughts are clues. They reveal the mental blocks standing between you and the writing life you want. And once you identify those blocks, you can begin to work through them to finally feel confident calling yourself a writer.

A note about aspiring

A lot of newer writers, and even many who’ve been writing for years, use the term “aspiring writer.” I used to, too. It felt like a good compromise—I was still sharing that I enjoyed writing but wasn’t claiming to actually be a writer.

Then I took a workshop with a literary agent who told us, point blank: “Go take ‘aspiring’ off your bio. You’re here. You’re doing the work. You’re writers.”

That advice stuck, and now I pass it on to every writer I work with.

Adding “aspiring” may feel small and inconsequential, but it’s not. It reinforces the belief that you’re not quite there yet, that you haven’t earned the title. Every time you call yourself an aspiring writer, you’re feeding the imposter syndrome that keeps you stuck.

So, I know you might be reading this and thinking that I’m being dramatic in telling you to immediately go to any social media presence you might have and change any mention of aspiring writer to simply say “writer”—I know this because I was once in your exact shoes—but I promise you this is bigger than just a disagreement over an adjective. It’s a mindset shift. Making the conscious effort to start thinking about yourself as a writer rather than an aspiring one is the first step toward shattering your self-limiting beliefs so you can finally become the writer you dream of being.

“Sindo Hane” has published more than 100 novels since April 2025

This content-farming model has been around for a long time, only now it’s AI powered.

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Audiobook sales continue to grow

Audiobook sales revenue increased 13 percent in 2024 versus the prior year, according to the Audio Publishers Association Sales Survey.

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HarperCollins UK and HQ launch new literary fiction imprint

It “aims to reimagine what literary fiction can achieve, publishing novels that resonate across generations, transcend genres, and break convention.”

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New agent at FinePrint Literary

Lauren Khan has joined FinePrint Literary Management and will open to queries soon.

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Links of interest: June 4, 2025

The latest in bankruptcies, trends, marketing & promotion, AI, and libraries.

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What Happens When We Treat Agents and Publishers as Genuine Partners

Photo by Ashkan Forouzani on Unsplash

Today’s post is by author and editor Claire Polders.

My publishing journey started with two strokes of luck: I found an agent for my debut novel on the first try and she sold my book before I ever published a short story.

But that happened in another country, the Netherlands, and another era, two decades ago. If I had waited for that same luck to find me again, my debut collection of fiction in English would not be released this summer.

It took me an embarrassingly long time, however, to take one crucial step in my writing career. Here’s what happened.

About ten years ago, after four of my novels in Dutch found homes with traditional publishers, I switched to writing in English. I knew the competition would be tougher in the US, yet there would be far more readers for my work if I were to publish in English. My excellent new agent, Marie Lamba, sold one of my books, A Whale in Paris, to Atheneum (Simon & Schuster) early on, and was doing a great job at getting editors to read my other books. I write (literary) fiction, middle grade fiction, short stories, essays, and memoir. But getting us deals for my other books proved more difficult. I blamed it on the market, the political climate, and waited for things to change. All I could do was practice patience, right?

But patience is not my strongest quality, and that proved fortunate for me in this case. I began to work harder on my craft and my visibility. I engaged more with readers and writers on social media and published a lot of flash fiction. I loved the genre and learned so much about voice and storytelling. It also brought me many welcome connections in the writing world with fellow authors. But my stories never drew the desired attention of acquisition editors at publishing houses. Soon, the years that passed since my last book came out began to weigh on me. How much more patience did I need to have?

Meanwhile, fellow authors without representation were publishing flash fiction collections with small, independent presses. I was genuinely happy for them when a book got released and I often helped promote their work online. But deep down I wondered: Why are their collections getting published and not mine? Is my writing of lesser quality? Is it because I don’t live in the US?

The answer, when it came to me, was stupidly obvious: They were submitting their collections of flash fiction to literary prizes and independent publishers that specialized in the genre, whereas I let my flash fictions collect dust. Why?

I felt (and feel) very fortunate to have an agent, especially one as kind, professional, and hands-on as Marie Lamba is. She edits my books before she submits them to publishers. At no cost to me, I should add. She invests her attention in me because she has confidence in my writing. And she does so on spec: She earns no money until she sells another one of my books to a publisher. Because of this, I try to be as respectful as possible of her time. When I was letting my flash fictions collect dust, Marie was already working with me on three books, and I believed it would be unfair to ask her to also pitch my flash fiction collection. Story collections are a tough sell—and Marie was pitching one of those for me—and flash fiction collections are even more difficult to place.

So what were my options? Could I, perhaps, try to find a home for my flash collection on my own? I was (and still am) under contract for all my book-length work, yet there were no strict laws against me sending submissions to publishers who don’t require representation. I could at least ask Marie whether she minded if I gave it a shot.

Hesitantly, I wrote the email. Was I rude for entering her territory? Did it show a lack of confidence in her? I feared I might offend her, like I would offend a waiter in a fancy restaurant when you pour your own wine. But Marie didn’t mind. She even encouraged me and warned me for possible pitfalls.

I finally understood that we were genuine partners. Why would she not support my efforts in getting us a deal?

After I got the green light from her, I spent time and money to submit the manuscript to various literary prizes and specialized presses. I learned what I could from the rejections I inevitably received and improved both my manuscript and my pitch. When one of my favorite indie publishers finally had a submission window, I was ready.

Vine Leaves Press made it clear in their submission guidelines that they, too, were looking for partners, not for authors who sat back and hoped for the best. They selected manuscripts based on the quality of the writing, yet they also expected authors to play an active part in the sales of their books. As the publisher, they would edit, proofread, design, and print the book, and as the author, I would seek blurbs, reviews, interviews, and more based on their marketing & publicity handbook. It seemed like a good collaboration.

In October 2023, I sent my submission letter to Vine Leaves Press. I mentioned my publication history, my modest platform, and the fact that I had representation in the US. I let them know that I understood what role I had to play as an author partnering with a small press. I also told them why I submitted to their publishing house in particular: I had read their work before expecting them to read mine. You can find my submission letter here.  

In November of that year, Vine Leaves Press requested the full manuscript, and two months later they offered me a contract, which I handed over to Marie: She knew far better than me how to negotiate it. Only a few months from now, in July 2025, my collection Woman of the Hour: Fifty Tales of Longing and Rebellion will be published.

Am I being lucky again? Probably. It always feels a bit like fate when we get our manuscript in the right hands at the right time. But I also think some of my non-writing efforts are paying off.

Success is never guaranteed. As authors we need to practice patience and deal with rejections, no matter what route we take, yet the chances of thriving in this ever-changing world will rise when we play a more active role in our career and not rely on our agent and publisher alone.