My close encounter with traditional publishing…and how I got away.

In a different life—not all that long ago—I had a literary agent and a traditional publisher. And for a moment, I thought I was finally on the path every writer dreams about. But the relationship was full of red flags, misunderstandings, and hurt feelings…
mostly mine.

It’s wild to think back on just how long I’ve been writing.
I mean really writing.

Thirty years.

Let me say that again.

Thirty. Years.

I don’t even feel thirty.

It all started innocently enough. My daughter was little, and I wanted to write her a cute story about a cat named Bunnywinkles—or maybe Fuzzywinkles—something equally adorable and likely copyright-infringing. I even painted the illustrations in watercolor, full Beatrix Potter mode. She loved it, which is all that mattered.

As she got older, though, so did my stories. Soon I was writing something with a bit more grit—a short story called The Crystal Skull, which, in hindsight, wasn’t half bad. Then came more children’s tales, including a rabbit detective with questionable investigative training. I learned about artwork, publishing, and what it meant to submit to the infamous slush pile.

And yes—back then, everything was physically mailed. You stamped your hopes and dreams, dropped them into a blue metal box, and prayed to the USPS gods.

To my surprise, I actually got interest. Nothing was published, and I had no idea what I was doing, but some agents wrote back with real pointers. I didn’t realize then how rare that was.

And then…

I stagnated.
Life happened.
Writing slipped through my fingers.

But later, when my daughter was in high school, the spark returned. Only this time I was writing adult fiction—horror and paranormal mysteries—because that’s where my strange little muse likes to live.

When one of those novels was finally finished, I did what most starry-eyed writers do: I queried literary agents with the solemn hope of “making it.”

Shockingly, it didn’t take long. An agent from Albuquerque emailed me asking for more pages.

I lost my mind.
In a good way.

I sent more pages. Then more. And one day, she emailed again—this time saying she wanted to represent me.

Cue confetti cannons.

I signed the contract, followed her instructions religiously, and watched as she sent my book out to publisher after publisher. Some rejected it kindly. Some rejected it cryptically (“too commercial”—please define??). Some rejected it immediately, like they just knew from the envelope aura.

My agent and I grew desperate. She believed in the book, but no one else seemed to. It was a strange, exhausting emotional rollercoaster—up one day, derailed the next.

Finally, we landed a publisher. A small one. A very small one. They didn’t pay an advance. Not ideal, but at the time I didn’t care. We were in.

I won’t even tell you how many revisions they wanted. I’m convinced they were editing the book they wished I had written.

Six months into this new partnership, my literary agent dumped me. In a group email. A digital breakup via mass messaging.

Apparently, she was “clearing out the dead wood.”

I didn’t make her money fast enough, so out I went.

Whatever.

A few months later, my book was released. I got ten author proofs. I opened the box, pulled out a copy…

…and my heart just fell apart.

The print was so tiny that even with reading glasses, magnifiers, and maybe a telescope, I couldn’t make out my own words. In an effort to save printing costs, the publisher had shrunk the text until it resembled ancient microfiche.

When I complained, they told me the print was “industry standard.”

No.
No, it was not.

I still have a copy of that book. If you compare it to the mass-market paperbacks you find at a drugstore checkout line, theirs looks like large print next to mine.

No one could have read my book.
No one.

I was devastated. Something that began with so much excitement and possibility ended with small text, big disappointment, and my signature on contracts that meant I couldn’t even reclaim what I’d created.

Back then, self-publishing was still treated like a dirty word. I remember attending a writers’ conference in Ohio where the mere mention of it made people clutch their pearls.

So again…
I stagnated.

Then, about a year later, an email landed in my inbox: the publisher was bankrupt. All rights to my book reverted back to me.

Their downfall became my freedom.

Suddenly, I could publish again—on my own terms. I could choose the font size. I could design my covers. I could hold a book I’d written and actually read the words inside it. And for the first time in years, my confidence came rushing back.

Now, I’m not saying all agents treat their writers the way mine treated me. Many are wonderful. Many fight for their authors. And I’m not saying all publishers cut corners or shrink books into unreadable paper crumbs.

I’m just saying…
this was my experience.

And here’s the truth: traditional publishing doesn’t advertise:

They don’t promote your work—you do.
Their marketing budgets go to big names, not hopeful newcomers.
They don’t take you out for cocktails unless you’re Anne Rice, Danielle Steel, or someone who sells like them.

You want cocktails? You’re ordering DoorDash at home.

So now?
I publish what I want.
Short stories, novels, serial fiction—whatever lights me up.
I write across genres.
I experiment.
I don’t apologize for being “too commercial.”

Do I sometimes think about going back to traditional publishing?
Sure.

Would I actually do it?

Probably not.

I don’t like gatekeepers.
Not unless they’re steaming hot and open to negotiating.

I’ll let you know if I ever find one.

Until next time,
Dip from your inkwell often,
Mira Wolfe Writes…