The Economics of a Small Publisher: Grants, Hustle, and the Art of Selling More Than Just Books
Imagine running a business where your primary product is made of paper, competes with Netflix for attention, and relies on humans choosing to read in a world of TikTok dances. Welcome to the economics of a small publisher—a realm where passion collides with spreadsheets, and where grants are the espresso shots that keep the literary machine humming. Let’s dive into the gloriously chaotic world of indie publishing, where survival hinges not just on selling books but on mastering the art of creative panhandling (with dignity, of course).
Grants: The Literary World’s Fairy Godmothers (If Cinderella Were a PDF Application)
For small publishers, grants are like dating: You spend hours crafting the perfect pitch, cross your fingers, and hope someone finds you worthy. Government arts councils, private foundations, and cultural organizations dangle grants like carrots for projects that “enrich the literary landscape” (translation: publish that experimental poetry anthology about urban raccoons). Winning one feels like finding a $20 bill in last winter’s coat—suddenly, you can afford to print that illustrated chapbook and pay the intern in more than leftover office snacks.
But grants are fickle. They demand proposals longer than the books you publish, budgets that assume you’re savvy in accountancy, and outcomes measurable in “community impact units” (whatever those are). Yet, when secured, they’re lifelines. They fund translations of obscure Lithuanian novels, LGBTQ+ anthologies, or children’s books about climate change—projects that corporate publishers might dismiss as “too niche” but that small presses champion like literary superheroes.
The Side Hustle Symphony: Because Books Alone Don’t Pay the WiFi Bill
Small publishers don’t just sell books; they’re part-time event planners, merch moguls, and borderline influencers. Let’s break down the real revenue streams keeping the lights on:
Merch Madness: Why stop at books when you can slap your press’s logo on tote bags, mugs, or “I Survived Editing This Manuscript” T-shirts? Bonus points if the merch pairs with a book—e.g., “Buy our gardening memoir, get a packet of heirloom seeds! (Warning: We take no responsibility for your zucchini failures.)”
Literary Tourism: Host author workshops, writing retreats in cozy barns, or “Drunk History”-style storytelling nights at the local pub. Charge admission, sell books at the door, and pray no one spills beer on the signed copies.
Subscription Boxes: For the price of a latte, subscribers get a curated book, artisanal bookmarks, and a handwritten note that says, “You’re a reader, not a screen zombie—congrats!” (Packaging not included. Sustainability guilt optional.)
Crowdfunding: Launch a Kickstarter for that avant-garde graphic novel, promising backers their names in the acknowledgments—or, for top-tier donors, a cameo as “Disgruntled Barista #2” in the protagonist’s existential crisis.
Partnerships: Team up with indie coffee shops, museums, or even wineries. “Pair our dystopian novella with an ethically sourced Malbec! Despair has never tasted so fruity.”
The Tightrope Walk: Grants Giveth, Grants Taketh Away
Relying on grants and side hustles is like building a Jenga tower of revenue—thrilling until someone yanks the wrong block. Grants vanish when funding priorities shift (sorry, Lithuanian raccoon poetry). Crowdfunding fatigue sets in. Workshop attendance plummets because, well, someone scheduled it on a Taylor Swift concert night.
But here’s the twist: Small publishers thrive on this chaos. They’re nimble, scrappy, and unafraid to pivot. When a grant falls through, they’ll auction off a CEO’s vintage typewriter on eBay. When Amazon’s algorithm buries their titles, they’ll hand-sell books at farmers’ markets while debating the merits of kale with a skeptical customer.
Why It Matters: Because the World Needs More Than Algorithms and Kardashian Memoirs
Corporate publishers bet on surefire bestsellers—celebrity memoirs, thrillers with “Girl” in the title, and self-help manifestos promising enlightenment in 30 days. Small publishers? They bet on weirdos. On debut authors, marginalized voices, and stories that don’t fit neatly into Amazon’s “Customers Also Bought” algorithm.
Grants and creative hustles aren’t just survival tactics; they’re acts of rebellion. They keep literature diverse, unpredictable, and human. Every tote bag sold, every workshop hosted, and every grant won is a middle finger to the idea that art must be marketable to matter.
Conclusion: The Small Publisher’s Manifesto
To run a small press is to embrace a life of controlled chaos: part librarian, part circus ringmaster, part caffeinated grant-writing maniac. It’s not for the faint of heart—or those who enjoy steady paychecks. But in a world where creativity is too often reduced to clicks and conversions, small publishers are the rogue gardeners planting seeds in cracks of the corporate pavement.
So here’s to the grant applications, the merch side gigs, and the stubborn belief that a chapbook about existential raccoons deserves to exist. May your WiFi never falter, your ISBN budget multiply, and your coffee supply remain eternal. 📚✨
And if all else fails, there’s always the option to pivot to audiobooks narrated by Snoop Dogg.
Fixed and Dilated
By Liz Dubelman
“Dad’s eyes are fixed and dilated.” The words echoed in Ellis’s head as she camped out by Gate 12B, juggling a stressed brain and two days’ worth of guilt for forgetting her laptop charger.
She’d been on the last day of a Santa Barbara vacation when Ben phoned: Lester had slipped chasing a mouse with a hammer (“Yes, really”), hit his head, gone to bed with a headache—and never woken up. Englewood Hospital, New Jersey, was now Ground Zero for this absurd tragedy. Fixed and dilated. Blood everywhere. Ellis pictured a mouse smirking victoriously.
On the plane, she couldn’t focus: turned off the stove? Packed allergy pills? Left her charger on the kitchen counter— all yes. Ben, high on a joint and adrenaline, barked, “Ask for the bereavement fare” and rattled off hospital numbers. Ticket: a grand. She’d negotiate IOUs with Mom later.
Airborne, Ellis nabbed an empty two-seater and cracked a New Yorker like a flotation device. No witty Dorothy Parker line came—until she thought, “What fresh hell is this?” She smiled, then ordered two Dewar’s (“I’m on compassionate grounds”) and regretted the confession immediately.
Scotch + reading = nap. Dreams twisted into a multiple-choice nightmare:
1. My dad would a) never die b) never leave me alone c) be proud d) be jealous. Pencil snapped. Red gushed. Mice were impervious to hammers. Blood was abundant. He died by accident. Wake-up: the New Yorker fell into her lap.
At Englewood, the fluorescent buzz and antiseptic haze hit her like a bad script. Following the yellow line, she found Phoebe silent, understandable given that she was now in the fourth year of a contested divorce from Lester, and Jenny muttering Dad was staging another pity trick. Jenny: lifelong contrarian, the only one who defended Lester in the ongoing four-year legal circus.
Inside ICU, Lester looked like a sepia Civil War exhibit—blood-crusted bandages, ventilator pipes inflating his chest. He smelled of decay. Phoebe gripped Ellis’s hand. Everything was macabre.
They snuck into the motley “Family Room” (fold-out couch, rotary phone of doom). Jenny phoned rabbis but could only leave voicemails. Lawyer next: no will, same roof divorce, bitter history. Dr. Williams (bespectacled whisper) and Nurse Jim (blond calm) pronounced Lester Brain Dead: pull tubes by 1 p.m. the next day. Organ donation? Jenny snapped, “We’re Jewish. Not our thing.” Ellis, eight years of Hebrew school and perpetual annoyance at the “chosen people” theory behind her, felt validated.
Back home, inheritance duties: Lester’s blood-stained sheets needed laundering. She froze mid-pile, wondering how Nurse Jim faced this daily. Ben emerged, joint in hand: “Wanna hit?” She declined.
Jewish law mandates burial inside 24 hours with an all-night prayer vigil. Phoebe and Jenny handled funeral-home logistics; Ellis and Ben sipped coffee in awkward silence. At Volk-Leber, Mr. Leber winked over pine-box options and Taharah rites. Phoebe wanted something simple. “Simple is open to interpretation,” Mr. Leber quipped. They agreed on the next-to-cheapest one.
Next morning, they returned. Rabbi Rothstein, late but sincere, shared his own father’s cancer saga. Then goodbyes: Phoebe’s tear-soft shush, Jenny’s gasp, Ellis’s apology-and-I-love-yous that felt ridiculous addressed to a lifeless bed, yet she cried anyway. Family Room dozed, hall wanderings led to Nurse Jim, nose in a copy of Time. “How do you do this?” she asked. “I offer hope,” he said.
Back in the hallway, she spotted a lone bird feather—omen? Grasping Jenny’s hand, “See? A sign!” Jenny yanked free: “It’s fluff.”
The funeral: Jenny onstage — eulogizing Dad as warm, inventive, misunderstood—collapsed in sobs; the rabbi swooped. Ellis recalled winning an AFI writing prize—Lester whispering, “They don’t love you; they’ll forget you.” She urged mourners: judge a man by his whole life, not his worst moments. Ben followed, praising Dad’s jitterbug prowess—dance floors used to clear when they spun.
After burial, ritual hand-washing at the door: they placed water outside but forgot towels, drip-drip-drip led them in like reverse breadcrumbs.
That afternoon Aunt Stella and Uncle Sid arrived, tan and thriving from Florida. Over deli trays, Sid confessed a wild side hustle: fired from Winn-Dixie, humiliated by doctors, rescued by a punk named Johnny peddling OxyContin. He and Stella conspired, got rich, and entertained friends with Stella’s cooking. “We’ve never been happier,” he crowed. Stella kissed Ellis’s cheeks: “You were always the good one.”
Uncle Sid winked, “Need anything, call me.” Then they dashed off to see Mandy Patinkin on Broadway. Ellis watched them go, thinking funerals are odd weddings with coffin centerpieces—and life’s dark comedy never stops.
“…thinking funerals are odd weddings with coffin centerpieces—and life’s dark comedy never stops.”
Oh, to be in your mind for an hour!
If we self publish we are a small publisher. That's the biggest hurdle-- competition. There's 3 million of us : )