My literary debut began in victory. I’m not kidding. I sent one query letter to, arguably, one of the best literary agents in the world. She read my manuscript, signed me into her agency, and declared that my novel was “going to be our big book of the year.”

Pretty cool, right? Every author’s dream.

In my late 50s, for the first time in many decades, I began to imagine something extraordinary for myself. The giant wheel in the universe had finally turned in my favor.

Then it got even better. At the Frankfurt Book Fair, my novel was picked up by publishers in Hungary and Germany. I had secured the best agent and landed two foreign deals. All that remained was the inevitable U.S. publishing auction and the massive check made payable to that season’s “hot” debut author.

If you’re kind of hating my good fortune, I don’t blame you. But don’t worry. That beautiful 60 days of joyful anticipation became 90 days, then 200, then 365. Lots of nail-biting. Floor-pacing. No auction. No deal. No apparent interest.

Two years later... still nothing.

I used to think getting an agent was the golden key that unlocked all the doors to being traditionally published. What I’ve learned is that it’s more like a hall pass. It gets you through one set of gates, but there are more ahead, and some of them won’t open no matter how good your representation is. Or your manuscript.

Then my agent—who’s a bulldog, but warm and generous—told me, with great kindness and empathy, that they were out of bullets. The trip was over. The dream had died.

So there I sat: Germany and Hungary waiting to birth my novel into languages I don’t speak, while, in my native country, I was unrepresented and a decidedly “not hot” commodity. Like many writers before me, I had to ask the question—you know the one. Could I do it on my own? Could someone with no publishing experience launch a debut? Was it possible that a good book could find readers without publishing house money, connections, or marketing muscle?

My indie path wasn’t glamorous. I researched hybrid publishing and found an amazing partner with Mission Point Press. That didn’t keep me from struggling with social media strategy, cover specs, pricing, and marketing. In one early ad, I somehow forgot to mention the name of my book. But, to my shock, it worked out great. Curious readers clicked the link to learn more. It became my most successful campaign. That was the first time that I realized something essential: there are rewards in experimentation—and sometimes being flat-out dumb pays off, too.

Still, there are some challenges that feel unsurmountable. The biggest concerns credibility. To be honest I still struggle with it. Booksellers and libraries are inundated with self-published authors demanding shelf space. I kept at it, though, failing strategically. At 59, I decided to give TikTok a try—an experience my daughter describes as “unfortunate for all involved.” Apparently, suspense novels and dad energy don’t trend well. Still, I posted. Some flopped. Some didn’t. That’s indie life in a nutshell: keep throwing darts, and eventually something sticks.

It’s a strange position I find myself in. For over a year, I’ve been grinding—trying to find my readers, trying to figure out what works. And yet, abroad, my book will soon be released into bookstores all over Berlin, Munich, and Frankfurt—a hot new American voice for the European audience.

There, my traditional publishing path was incredibly easy. I didn’t pick the cover. I didn’t beg for blurbs. I literally did nothing. Then again, I learned nothing.

If I’d gotten my dream deal in the U.S., I’d know none of what I do now. In the long run, that’s a problem. I consider myself fortunate to have been forced onto the self-publishing path. As an indie writer, you see everything: the wins, the misses. You experience the joy of selling a book or two in far-flung countries such as India and New Zealand. (Seriously, that was a fun day). And you also waste money and time on things that don’t work.

You’re the boss. There’s no buffer between you and failure—but there’s also no buffer between you and success either.

That clarity transformed me. I stopped measuring my worth through traditional publishing validation and began to recognize my own value as a writer on my own terms. I decided to redirect that energy into believing in myself and my work. My literary voice matters. I am in control. That works for me. No one will ever care about my book as much as I do.

I’ve learned that, if you’re willing to learn, to ask questions, to fail publicly and keep going, that’s enough to start. It doesn’t mean I’ve sworn off traditional publishing. If the right opportunity comes along, I’ll take the meeting. But I’ll walk into it knowing exactly what I bring to the table—because I built that table myself.

The indie route gave me a direct line to the people that matter most: a growing audience of readers. We’re starting to find each other. It’s grassroots and it’s wonderful.

So can you make it as an indie author without the publishing machine behind you? The answer is yes.

And also... kind of.

You don’t get the book tour. You don’t get the team. You don’t get the baked-in legitimacy that still carries weight in some rooms. But you do get something else, something slower and harder to quantify: proof of your own resilience, a direct line to your readers, the feeling that you’re not waiting anymore.

And you get moments, small ones usually: an unexpected email from a reader who loved the ending, a spike in sales after a blog post you didn’t think anyone would read, the quiet thrill of watching how many pages of your book people are reading in real time. Those moments, I’d argue, are of deep value.

Maybe one day I’ll even figure out TikTok—and my daughter will forgive me.