The year was 2016. It was the year I said I would self-publish a novel. Fast forward and a lot has transpired, none of which is a self-published book. Why?

Well, stuff gets in the way…

If you are a parent, you know this. If you are a college student, you know this. If you are a person with any type of life, you know this.

I guess you could say that in 2016 and the following years, I found this out. But to blame the lack of a self-published work on raising a child, working, and just surviving would not be entirely fair. The biggest shift has been invisible, and that’s because it has been inside my head.
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Here’s a question for you: Did anyone else out there question the legitimacy of self-published material? I did.

When the ability to self-publish first became a thing, I was probably right to question it. Like all new waves, there were no real standards in place. Anyone and everyone could self-publish, resulting in a mix of professionalism, think a bag of simple peanuts with a few fantastic macadamias.

In some ways this is still partly true—anyone and everyone can self-publish their materials, but what I noticed recently (and I admit I was late to the party) is that now the standard for self-published work is high.

In part, this comes down to us writers wanting to put out the best product—yes, our lovely words are our babies, but they are also product—and in part, this is also thanks to readers. A person might be willing to buy a self-published piece once from a writer, but if that writer has not put their best item forward, editing it, and presenting it in a captivating manner, then that one-time reader will never make the same mistake of reading or buying another piece from that writer again.

And this is a GOOD thing. A raised bar for one author is a raised bar for all, resulting in what all us writers want: our best possible work on the page.