How I Went From “Big 5 or Die!” to Ecstatic Self-Published Author

AI-generated image (ChatGPT): a cozy sunlit home which is decorated for a party. On the dining room table is a sheet cake decorated with the author’s name and book title.

Today’s post is by author Denise Massar.

When I started writing my memoir, my publishing goal was Big Five or nothing. I pitied indie authors as also-rans. Anyone could self-publish. Where was the clout?

I had not completely unrealistic dreams of being interviewed by Matt Lauer on the Today Show. (Yep, that’s how long ago I began writing my book.) I imagined being interviewed by Terry Gross on Fresh Air. I dreamed of a book launch party with white twinkly lights and a cake with my book’s cover on it. I wanted my editor to take me to lunch in Manhattan.

I thought I was on my way in spring of 2020 when my book went on submission. My agent, Jacquie, received exciting feedback—one editor wanted audio rights if we could sell print rights somewhere else. Another said she loved my book and pitched it at their editorial meeting but couldn’t convince the rest of her team. That one hurt. A New York publishing house sat around a table and debated making an offer on my book?! While I was what … cleaning the litter box? Astonishing. But ultimately heartbreaking.

Five months later, we ran out of editors to pitch, and my book died on submission.

Amazingly, I got a second chance. Because my book was on submission during the earliest months of the pandemic and we’d received positive feedback, Jacquie thought it was worthwhile to wait a year, let the incestuous (her word, not mine) world of publishing do its thing, see where editors landed, and give it another go.

So, I went on sub again. 

And my book died on sub. Again.

I was—offended is truly the best word here—that landing an agent and going on sub didn’t guarantee a book deal. I never considered that my manuscript would reach 50 editor inboxes and not find a publisher. I thought “on sub” was a one-way trip; I didn’t know my once-impeccably-dressed-ingenue of a manuscript could boomerang back to me, wearing a pit-stained white T-shirt with “I’m going to step aside on this one…” Sharpied across her chest.

 My agent changed jobs and let me go.

A successful mentor in the publishing industry said to me, “I think your book’s a university press book.”

And I was like, Yes! It’s memoir! It addresses the social issues baked into adoption like racism and classism! My book is totally a university press book!

While it did feel like a considerable step down from the Big Five dream, it was a respectable one. I could still go around throwing out the phrase, “My publisher said…”

Around this time, I found a lump in my neck. Three different specialists said that it wasn’t cancer and because the tumor was lodged between my carotid artery and my jugular vein, it was better to get annual scans to keep an eye on it than to remove it. But an endocrinologist—whom I didn’t trust because she was so young—ran some blood work that revealed I had a genetic mutation, and that, actually, the tumor would turn into cancer. (That newly minted doctor I didn’t trust probably saved my life.)

Things got scary fast. My previously unfazed surgeon was ordering PET scans, stat!

I spent 10+ hours in the bowels of an MRI machine wearing a Hannibal Lecter-like mask to keep my head still. And when you’re in an MRI machine wondering if all of the beeps and bangs and machine-gun-like rat-a-tat-tats of magnetic imagining are going to reveal “tumor characteristics” consistent with malignancy, the very last thing in the world you give a f—k about is Matt Lauer. 

It was agreed that the tumor had to come out before it turned into cancer if it hadn’t already. It would be major surgery with a four-week recovery.

One week post-surgery I got the lab results: the tumor was benign.

Quietly healing throughout February 2024, I mostly thought about how happy I was to be here. That I’d been given a pass to keep being here. But, slowly, throughout the spring, my mind eased out of survival mode and I thought about my book: What did I want as an author? What were my publishing goals now?

I knew exactly.

I wanted my kids to see me finish the job. When I started writing Matched, they were five, three, and newborn. They’ll be 16, 14, and 10 when my book publishes. They’ll have dreams of their own threatened by failure, family obligations, work responsibilities, health issues, and wavering confidence, but if they want to achieve them badly enough, they’ll keep going. I wanted them to have a model for what that looks like.

I wanted to hear from people who read my book—readers touched by adoption, readers who’d also searched for secret biological relatives—anyone who connected with my story and felt inspired to reach out. I got a hit of that drug when an essay I wrote for HuffPost in 2023 went viral. In it, I wrote about caring for my mom while she had terminal cancer. I talked about how sadness wasn’t my overriding emotion; though I loved my mom deeply, my primary emotion was stressed-out. The day the essay ran, I received hundreds of Facebook, Instagram, and email messages, and they all said: Same here! Me too! I thought it was just me!

And I still wanted a launch party. I grew up reading about the literary fetes of the 1990s and couldn’t help but imagine my own. The same mentor who’d encouraged me to go the university press route (they all passed on my book, too) helpfully reminded me that even if I’d gotten a book deal, as an unknown debut memoirist, I wasn’t gettin’ a party anyway.

So, I’m throwing my own twinkly, joyous celebration. The book cover cake has been ordered.

The snobby writer I was when I first began my author journey in 2014 would’ve never believed that she’d end up truly ecstatic to be self-publishing her book in 2024. Perspective can’t be rushed. I’m proud of my path from “Big Five or Nothing” to “War-Grizzled Self-Published Author.”

This week, at my launch party, my kids will hear me talk about how hard this journey was and how happy I am that I kept going. I’ll dance in the night air with family and friends.

I’ll receive messages from fellow adoptees saying they had to fight to see their birth certificate, too. Or that they also reunited with their birth mom. Maybe a hopeful adoptive mom will message me saying that she’s still searching for her baby, wondering if it’s ever going to happen for her. And I’ll sit at my desk in my pajamas and reply to every single one of them.

If you’re somewhere in the murky middle of querying, or your book died on sub, or the whole mess is in a goddamn basket somewhere, take a rest if you need to. But then keep going.

Take out a pen and make a list: What do you really want to get out of publishing your book?

Amazon • Bookshop

Can you make it happen? Do you need to be traditionally published to do it?

Maybe you want to do a reading, or a signing, or to see your book in your local library or a bookstore. You can do all of those things as an indie author!

It’s not about Matt Lauer (or Hoda & Jenna), or even Terry Gross.

It’s about holding your published book in your hands. It’s about your story finding your readers, whether 30 or 30,000, and the human connection that your words will spark. It’s about celebrating with the people who were there for you all along.

And you don’t need anyone but yourself to make that happen.