Behind The Imprint · DENNER Media
I think that almost every writer starts out the same way. You’ve got something — an idea, a half-finished manuscript, a few lines from what could be almost every paragraph, a drawer full of notes you keep meaning to turn into something real — and you’re convinced. Convinced that somewhere in the back of your mind, is THE idea…an idea that — if the right person just saw it, everything would change.
And I that that, because I wasn’t any different. Somewhere around late 2016, I found myself with a ‘Notes’ page containing eight titles. Eight of them. And all — give or take — in various stages of existence. I had ideas I believed in. Experiences I’d lived. Words aching to be strewn across page after page for someone to read. And I had that particular brand of hope that most writers carry quietly throughout the earlier part of their journey — the kind where you’re not exactly waiting for lightning to strike, but you’re definitely standing close to an open window and hoping for rain, if you get me.
In this same spirit, I’d started doing what people do. I got my name out into a few online writing communities. I mentioned notes on what I was working on at the time. I leaned into groups and sites mentioning the frequenting of literary agents and publishers, and I hoped and waited for something to happen.
Something happened, alright.
I don’t remember the first actual ‘publishing’ website questionnaire I’d filled out. I do remember what it promised: they’d take my concept and shop it to publishers. They were going to get my idea(s) in front of real people. They’d be position me to land a deal. And I was barely even at all cautious in my hopeful optimism. I mean, c’mon; the promise had the language of legitimacy — the kind of language that lands when a person clearly doesn’t yet know what the real version of any of this actually looks like.
What it actually did was sell my contact information. And what followed was weeks, then months, and then honestly, years — of texts, calls, voicemails, and emails from people who introduced themselves as literary agents and turned out to be sales representatives for companies that would help me self-publish. For a fee. Usually somewhere around $2,000 USD. “…or $600 if you act right now!”.
I’m just outside Fredericton, New Brunswick. At the time I was all but flat broke — due to an unexpected team release at my most recent contract. Six hundred US dollars was closer to eight hundred and something Canadian, and I barely had it — but either way, it most certainly was NOT in the budget. I also — and this truly mattered to me at the time — didn’t fully trust any of it. I mean, by that point in my very short stint of ‘self-employment’ I’d been taken advantage of enough times that my gut instincts were trying their damndest to catch up with my optimism.
But here’s the thing I’m almost embarrassed to admit: every single time a new voicemail came in, every time my phone showed an unknown number with a pitch attached to it, I got a just little excited. Because they always used the word agent. And I kept hoping that maybe this NEXT one would turn out to be the real deal. An agent wanting to discuss the potential in my being signed but a large, well-known publishing house.
None of them were, though. Not even one. They were all variations on the same offer — and seemingly all reading from the identical call scripting when they called. In the end, the call, text, email, or voicemail would wrap with some personalized close/call-to-action of; “…pay us, and we’ll help you publish.” Sure, there’d be any variety of editorial pass counts, or inclusion of cover art. Maybe some distribution support for a fee..but none of it felt ‘personalized’ in the way I’d been dreaming working with a publisher would feel. And to be clear; results were not guaranteed. Rights remain yours, technically, but the investment is yours too. No sharing of royalties also meant no concern for how effective the publishing had to be — or, at the very least, that’s how it all read to me.
I never pulled the trigger. Couldn’t afford to. And truthfully, even when the price dropped and the pressure increased, something in me kept asking: if any of my books are worth publishing, then why am I the one paying?
I still get the calls, you know. This past Thursday afternoon I got one. For the most part I’ve stopped answering numbers I don’t recognize from area codes I don’t know — which, if you’ve ever been on any kind of creative or entrepreneurial mailing list, you understand. Even to the point of having to add a screener offered by our phone carrier.
You know something, though?
When I decided to steer DENNER Media into this indie publishing space, one of the first things I had to sit with was an uncomfortable question: am I just doing the same thing? Authors pay to work with us, don’t they? And I charge for my time and expertise in this space. At a surface level, then, you could draw a line between what I’m doing and what those agencies were doing and argue it’s not all that different.
I’ve thought about it. A lot. I’ve discussed it with a few of the people I hold closest. Here’s where I (and/or maybe even ‘we’) landed.
The agencies that called me were running volume. It was a numbers game to them, as I’ve since found out with a bit of investigation in their model(s). Cast wide, convert a percentage, move on. Nobody on the other end of those calls had read any of my work whatsoever, nor cared whether any of it was even any good. Their pitch was identical whether you had a genuinely compelling manuscript or a half-formed idea you typed out over a weekend. Everyone welcome. Pay the fee, here’s your package, best of luck to you!
Am I just doing the same thing?
Look, we all have a place. I’m not writing an article meant to be beating up on their model. I’m sure it’s working, or there’d not be nearly as many of them out there doing it. And, providing it’s working for the author, fantastic!
That’s not what this is to me, though.
DENNER Media is — right now in this current edition — is one person. Me. And I’m choosing to be straight with you about where we’re starting from, because that’s exactly the kind of transparency I wish someone had offered me in those early days of wanting to be published. It’s actually the whole point of being in this direction, I’d actually tell you. My purpose here is to ensure that when you’re working with DENNER Media, you’re working with me directly. And while at some point in the future it may also be with member(s) of an editorial and/or design team(s) within DENNER. Someone who has spent a decade on the other side of this, who knows what it feels like to have something real and not be able to get anyone to treat it (or me) that way.
I keep the roster small on purpose. Partly because we’re still in early days — and I’m wanting to ensure footing before any form of client overwhelm happens. Intentional but also early. And not because I can’t or won’t want to scale it eventually, but because there’s also a future reality involving a model that falls apart the moment I start treating authors like completed intake forms. My desire it to touch each and every project here. They’ll get real attention — real strategy, real investment in whether their living idea actually works after launch day. The royalty agreement we sign together means I have skin in the game long after the publishing checklist is complete.
And yeah — if you’ve got something genuinely worth publishing and the upfront fee is a barrier, that’s a conversation I’m willing to have. I have that flexibility when we’re smaller, and I’m still seeing every deal. I’m not going to pretend that’s a formal policy, but I’m also not going to pretend I don’t remember what it felt like to be told the door was open and then discover the price tag on the other side of it. Will we take every author who comes to us? Unlikely, no. And I’m sorry for that too, but if not now, they’ll go away with some homework, some opportunity, etc., and we’ll maybe see them again a bit further down the road. Doesn’t mean I don’t want everyone to reach out. You may be our next signing.
Look, let’s wrap this longer-than-I’d-anticipated article up by saying; I built DENNER Media to the point of being able to now focus on publishing, because I’d spent equal time wishing it already existed. Not a vanity press in a suit. Not a traditional publisher who needed you to already be famous to matter. Something or somewhere in the middle — honest about what it costs, honest about what you get, and actually paying attention to the work.
That’s what it is now, and I love that…for all of us…and we’re just getting started.
— J.