in defense of trad publishing

+ why i'm taking a break

Newsletters on Substack often espouse that the end of traditional publishing is nigh. There is, of course, a sampling problem with asking writers on Substack about the future of traditional media. If they were fully committed to traditional media, they wouldn’t be on Substack; they would be behind the desks of said traditional media publications.

I always read these types of pieces with great interest, analyzing their arguments as well as rebuttals of those arguments. It is, I suppose, in my nature—I am always trying to predict the future, ensure I am preparing adequately for what’s to come. It is the same instinct which led me to value prestige so highly—I saw a distinct correlation between prestige and the probability of “being okay” in life. I wanted to be okay; I was sick of carrying the inevitable anxieties which immigrants carry in America.

Photo by Clay Banks on Unsplash

As someone who is both on Substack (hi, hello!) and writing a book to be traditionally published (coming to you in 2025!), I have some thoughts on the benefits of traditional publishing. This isn’t to knock the medium of newsletters—there is great value in them—but it is undoubtedly different from other mediums, the same way that short stories, novels, short films, TV shows, and feature films differ due to the unique constraints and potentials of the medium even if the central story being told is the same. I love writing this newsletter; I love writing for traditional publishing. To me, this shouldn’t be an either/or question.

In order of value to me, here are the benefits I receive from traditional publishing:

1. My editor. Editors are godsends to writers who are (a) hyper-critical of themselves or (b) not critical at all of themselves. Basically, all writers. An editor is part therapist, part branding strategist, part communications liaison, and part editor.
   
   My editor has done wonders in helping me focus my mess of a first draft and point out when I have three supporting points when one supporting point will do (this is definitely a lawyer tendency, I fear!). My editor also helps me not succumb to internet brain, which is my predilection to share something potentially controversial and then immediately disclaim or qualify the disclosure in an attempt to avoid getting cancelled.
   
   Do I really think I will get cancelled? No, but when my off-the-cuff video about marriage being made-up went viral and led to a not-fun period of internet amplification, including by the Daily Mail, I can’t help but develop internet brain and immediately put up defenses even in a medium which emphasizes vulnerability and honesty. I’ve become overly sensitive to the impossible standards that the internet at large has, especially for women, and my impulse is to recede, minimize, disappear. My editor helps me rein in my worst impulses and nurture my best instincts.

2. Upfront monetary investment. A publisher is like a venture capital firm—they provide upfront money for ventures they find promising, knowing that they will not recoup their investment for most of them. That is a wonderful service to provide—both VC firms and publishers allow new entrants to allocate some of their risk to the VC firm/publisher instead. Otherwise, only established players or nepo babies or the risk-seeking would be able to traditionally publish books or start companies. (Substack initially offered large advances to established writers to start newsletters, but it was never going to offer that me—an unknown writer, with no established publications.)
   
   There are societal downsides to VC-type incentives, of course (which I won’t go into here), but as a debut author, I am eternally grateful to Portfolio/PRH for taking a chance on me. I would not be able to write this book without my advance. Sure, I always heard about authors who tapped out novels and memoirs on their phones during their subway commutes, but I was never going to be one of them. I love writing, but you know what I loved more than anything? Safety. Stability. Over-performing at my job so I could hold safety and stability in a death grip.
   
   When I first moved to NYC, I tried keeping up a blog—I bought the domain name and everything. But between the demands of Biglaw and my own anxieties, I never wrote one single post. That’s on me, and I’m not blaming Biglaw for preventing me from ~chasing my dreams~; it’s more to point out that with my personality and risk profile, I never would have gotten it together to take writing seriously. It took a traditional publisher—offering some semblance of safety and stability, two of the things I yearn for most in life—for me to make the leap.¹

3. Allowing me to spend more time writing and less time on the accoutrements. One question I received a lot when I first announced my book deal was why I didn’t self-publish. Self-publishing, after all, would ensure that I retain a greater percentage of the profits from sales. Self-publishing, however, involves waaaay more than just writing—publishing is the process of creating a product. It involves writing, yes, but also editing, branding, sales, marketing, PR, printing, legal reads, sensitivity reads, copyediting, and a bunch of other tasks that happen behind the scenes.
   
   When you self-publish, you are responsible for completing all those tasks—or finding contractors to complete those tasks. If you rely on contractors, the law of supply and demand holds—for editors and designers and publicists who are in high demand, the cost of their services can be in the tens of thousands. (You can, however, self-publish a book for significantly less.)
   
   Aside from needing to find the money to self-invest, which I would be too scared to do (see #2 above), if I’ve learned anything from creating content, it’s that I love ideating and writing—but hate everything else. I hate making YouTube thumbnails. I hate creating Instagram infographics. Hell, I even hate filming myself. In my ideal world, I could just lock myself in a room with a bunch of books and a computer and type, type away. That’s not fully possible, even in traditional publishing, but it’s much more possible than if I were to self-publish. Besides, I love working with others—feeling like something is a team effort—and my book will certainly be a team effort above all else. It’s what I miss the most about Biglaw and the feature I try to recreate the most in my various lines of work now.

4. Space to engage in deeper thinking and longform crafting. I recognize the irony of someone who started this whole journey as a TikToker singing the praises of longform anything—but longform really is where my heart and talents lie. Even in Biglaw, my favorite assignments were the longform memos where I had the opportunity to closely read a new piece of legislation, sit in my office for a couple hours gathering my thoughts on how the law would impact our clients’ operations, and then draft the memo from 10pm to 2am (my favorite working time, as I received fewer emails) with a large mug of tea by my side. A partner I worked with called these assignments “think ‘ems”—and I did everything I could to stress to partners that I was always game for these types of assignments.
   
   A book, even though it is composed of shorter sections, should ultimately read like a cohesive whole—there should be a narrative or thematic thread throughout that leaves the reader feeling that the whole (book) is greater than the sum of its parts (chapters). This takes thought and planning to accomplish, a level of care that I have always wanted to take but have never had the opportunity to take. Writing a book is one big “think ‘em”—and boy, am I excited (and extremely lucky) to have this space and time to think.

Right now, I am in a writing cave for my book’s second draft—I’ve charted out the narrative arc in Figjam; I’ve created character sheets in Scrivener à la Dungeons & Dragons; I’ve written 11,596 words, which are a lot better than the first 11,596 words of my first draft. I have also come to the unfortunate realization that unless I step away more from other projects, I am not going to finish my manuscript in time to make my publication date.

I tried stepping back from projects one at a time—podcast, then TikTok/Instagram, then YouTube—and now must step back from this newsletter, too. I love writing debrief—it’s the one non-book project I steadfastly held onto, even though it has the lowest view count (and therefore the worst ROI, if we count returns that way)—but as I stare down the barrel of the last few months I have before my book’s drop-dead date, I know what I have to do.

What does that mean for you? Not much; there is nothing you need to do. I have already paused payments for paid subscribers. I will resume billing once I get to a good spot with my manuscript, whenever that is. (I wanted to give a general sense of timeline here, but I know I can’t—my previous predictions about my creative process have been very wrong.)

For all subscribers, I will be sending out semimonthly newsletters featuring (1) a short life and writing update/hello from me and (2) an essay from the archives (that you probably have never seen or have forgotten because it’s been so long!). I’m thinking of calling these issues while I’m on my break rebrief (which I know isn’t a word but find cute anyway), but I’m always open to alternative wordplay and suggestions. My editor told me that we have to change the name of my book, anyway, from Big Bad Law to… something else, so have no doubt that I’ve been querying ChatGPT daily about names and titles.

Thank you so much for spending time on my little corner of the internet with me. I appreciate you to the moon and back. Chat soon xx ◆

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1. Whenever I talk about book advances, I have to note that the average debut author advance is not large enough to live in a high cost-of-living city like NYC. Book advances are separated into 3-4 installments, which are disbursed upon contract execution, manuscript delivery, publication, and then perhaps one year post-pub or if/when a paperback is issued. This means that book advances must last authors several years—for me, it’s looking like it will be paid out over the course of four years. And it is, of course, subject to the taxes which surprised me so much last month.