I had enough!

After years of trying to get a publishing deal for my books, I finally had enough and started my own publishing company for myself and other authors.

For a decade, I poured everything into my writing. Late nights after my day job, weekends sacrificed to revisions, early mornings spent querying agents and publishers. I wrote the kinds of books I loved: thoughtful literary fiction with spice, stories about flawed people finding unexpected grace in ordinary lives. I believed in them. Beta readers believed in them. I sold tens of thousands directly.

But the publishing world? The rejections came in waves. Form letters at first: “Not quite right for our list.” Then the occasional personalized note: “Strong writing, but we’re not sure how to position this in the current market.” One agent told me my protagonist was “too introspective for commercial success.” Another said the ending was “beautiful, but not upbeat enough for today’s readers.”

I revised. I rewrote. I started new projects that I thought might be more “marketable.” Still, nothing.

I watched friends, talented writers, some less polished than me, land deals. Their books hit shelves while mine gathered digital dust in my hard drive. I attended writing conferences, pitched in person, networked until I was exhausted. I paid for professional edits, hired a query coach. And still, the silence.

There were moments I almost quit. One winter, after my hundred-and-something-rejection, I seriously considered deleting every file. But something stubborn in me refused. These stories mattered. They’d helped readers in my critique groups through grief, loneliness, breakups. People connected with them. Why should a handful of gatekeepers in New York decide they weren’t worthy?

The turning point came on an ordinary Tuesday in early 2020.

I’d just received another rejection, this one particularly stinging because the agent had requested the full manuscript months earlier. I closed my laptop, walked to the kitchen, and stared out the window for a long time. Then I opened it again and started researching.

Not how to write a better query letter. Not the latest trends in dystopian romance.

I researched how to publish a book myself.

What I found astonished me. Authors were building real careers independently. Some were making more money than their traditionally published peers. They had creative control, higher royalties, direct relationships with readers. The tools existed: Amazon KDP, IngramSpark for print distribution, professional cover designers on Reedsy, editors on Upwork. It wasn’t the vanity press stigma of decades past. It was legitimate.

It was possible.

But something else struck me while scrolling through indie author forums: so many writers were in the exact same boat I was. Talented, dedicated, repeatedly rejected, not because their work was bad, but because it didn’t fit a narrow commercial mold.

That mold was: We want the next adult Harry Potter novel.

I loved JK’s books as a child and admire her business savvy, but while she was selling hundreds of millions of books, I was selling tens of thousands. There’s many missing zeros in my sales, and that’s what counts to mainstream book publishers along with a sizeable social media presence.

2020

In 2020, I took the leap. I published my first novel independently. I hired a fantastic cover designer, worked with an editor I trusted, learned the formatting ropes (and cursed InDesign more than once). I launched it quietly, terrified.

It sold. Not thousands of copies right away, but steadily. Readers left reviews that made me cry, reviews that understood exactly what I’d tried to do. Book bloggers reached out. I started a newsletter and actually enjoyed connecting with readers directly.

Two months later, my second book did better.

Then something unexpected happened: other writers started asking me how I’d done it. Could I look at their manuscripts? Did I have recommendations for editors? Would I ever consider… helping them publish?

Other Authors

At first I said no. I was barely keeping my own head above water. But the requests kept coming. And every time I saw another talented writer crushed by rejection, I felt that old anger flare up.

In spring 2025, I made the decision.

I formed an LLC. I named the company Words by Carley, a nod to the idea that even small lights can guide people through darkness. The mission was simple: publish beautiful, thoughtful books that traditional publishing overlooks. Books that take risks. Books that trust readers to handle complexity, nuance, quiet moments.

We’re small. Intimate, even. I’m still the primary editor, though I’ve brought on a brilliant freelance developmental editor for bigger projects. We focus on literary fiction, memoir, and poetry: genres that often struggle in traditional markets. Every author keeps their rights. Royalties are generous. Creative control stays with the writer.

Our first season launched this fall with two books: mine, plus another from an author who I’d admired for years but watched get rejected everywhere. One is a haunting debut about intergenerational trauma in an immigrant family. Mine is about a strange family relationship (with spice).

We’re not rich yet. Some months I barely break even. But the reviews are glowing.

Bookstores are starting to inquire through Ingram. We’ve had a couple of regional award nominations. Most importantly, we’re proud of our books. They’re reaching readers. They’re building careers on their own terms.

Sometimes I get emails from writers who’ve been querying for years, asking if we’re open to submissions. I read every one. And when I find a manuscript that makes my heart ache in that particular way only great writing can, I plan to say yes.

I’m building Words by Carley because the gatekeepers told me my stories didn’t matter enough.

Now we’re proving them wrong, one book at a time.

And honestly? It feels like the best plot twist I never saw coming.