Indie Authors vs Traditionally Published Authors: Does It Actually Matter to Readers?

  I have a confession to make.

For years, I didn't really think about who published the books I was reading.

I'd pick up a book because I liked the cover, somebody recommended it, I'd read another book by the author, or — let's be truthful — it was sitting temptingly on the supermarket shelf while I was supposed to be buying bread.

Publisher?

No idea.

Then I started reading more indie books and realised there is a whole conversation going on about indie authors versus traditionally published authors.

And sometimes it gets surprisingly heated.

What Is an Indie Author Anyway?

Usually, when people talk about an indie author, they mean an author who publishes independently rather than having their book published by one of the traditional publishing houses. The term can get a little fuzzy around small independent presses, but self-published authors increasingly began describing themselves as ‘indie’ during the growth of digital self-publishing.

The big difference is control.

A traditionally published author has a publishing company behind the book. The publisher normally handles things such as editing, cover design, production and distribution, although authors are still expected to play their part in promotion.

An indie author is effectively running a tiny publishing company.

They write the book.

Then somebody has to edit it.

Somebody has to format it.

Somebody has to create the cover.

Somebody has to upload it, price it, advertise it and convince complete strangers on the internet that they should read it.

And quite often that somebody is the author.

Frankly, I'm exhausted just thinking about it.

Professional indie authors increasingly hire editors, cover designers, publicists and other specialists, so the finished process can look remarkably similar to what happens inside a publishing house.

But Aren't Traditionally Published Books Better?

This is where people start throwing things.

There is still an assumption in some quarters that traditionally published automatically means good, while self-published means not good enough to get a publishing deal.

Research into readers' attitudes has found that this perception hasn't entirely disappeared. Some readers still regard traditional publishing as a kind of quality-control stamp and want stronger recommendations before taking a chance on a self-published title.

I understand where that comes from.

The uncomfortable truth is that anybody can self-publish a book.

And I mean anybody.

There is nothing stopping somebody from finishing their first draft at breakfast and publishing it before lunch.

No editor. No proofreader. Homemade cover featuring a photograph of their neighbour's cat for reasons that become increasingly unclear.

Those books exist.

I've encountered some.

But here's the other uncomfortable truth.

I've read traditionally published books that I thought were dreadful.

I've found typos in them. I've encountered plots that made absolutely no sense. I've finished hugely hyped bestsellers and stared at the cover wondering whether I'd accidentally read a different book from everybody else.

A publishing contract is not a magical certificate declaring:

THIS BOOK IS BRILLIANT.

It means a publisher decided to publish it.

Those are not quite the same thing.

Indie Books Can Be Fantastic

Some of the best books I've stumbled across have been independently published.

And I think stumbled across is important.

Because finding them is often the problem.

Traditionally published books can appear in Waterstones, supermarkets, newspapers, magazines and all over social media. They might have publicity teams, advance campaigns and hundreds of review copies circulating before publication day.

An indie author can be sitting at home thinking:

"Mum bought one."

That's rather a different starting point.

Online bookselling changed things enormously because digital shelves don't have the physical space restrictions of a bookshop. That helped independent authors reach readers directly and, eventually, put self-published books onto major bestseller lists.

But having the opportunity to sell a book isn't the same as getting anybody to notice it.

There are so many books.

That's where reviews, bloggers, BookTok, Bookstagram and good old-fashioned word of mouth become incredibly important.

Indie Authors Can Take Risks

This is probably what I find most interesting.

A big publisher needs books to sell.

Obviously an indie author would quite like their book to sell too — food and electricity remain annoyingly expensive — but they have more freedom to decide exactly what they're going to publish.

That can mean unusual genres, strange combinations of genres, enormous books, tiny books, unconventional protagonists or stories that somebody in a publishing meeting might decide are too difficult to market.

Creative control is one of the reasons authors themselves give for choosing independent publishing.

Sometimes those risks don't work.

But sometimes you discover something wonderfully different.

And I'd rather have a few strange books in the world than every novel being designed by committee to resemble the last bestseller.

Traditional Publishing Has Advantages Too

Of course it does.

I'm not joining Team Indie and preparing to throw tomatoes at Penguin Random House.

Traditional publishing can give authors professional editorial support, production expertise and, importantly, much greater access to physical bookshops and traditional distribution.

There is also something reassuring about knowing that several people have been involved before the book reaches you.

Does that guarantee I'll enjoy it?

Absolutely not.

But there is normally a professional production process behind it.

So Which Is Better?

Neither.

There. I've solved the internet.

I don't think indie versus traditional is particularly useful when deciding whether a book deserves to be read.

There are brilliant indie books.

There are terrible indie books.

There are brilliant traditionally published books.

And there are traditionally published books I've finished only because abandoning them felt like admitting defeat.

What matters to me is whether the story is good.

Has the book been properly edited?

Does it make me care about the characters?

Am I still thinking about it the following morning?

Did I stay up until 1 a.m. saying, one more chapter, despite knowing perfectly well that I had to get up the next day?

If the answer is yes, I really couldn't care less whose logo is printed on the copyright page.

Perhaps that's the nicest thing about being a reader.

We don't actually have to choose a side.

We can have both.

And given the current state of my bookshelf, apparently I intend to.

Book Review: Lessons in Chemistry by Bonnie Garmus

 

★★★★★ - Five Stars

I wasn't sure I was going to like this book.

There. I've said it.

I'd seen Lessons in Chemistry absolutely everywhere, and sometimes when a book has been hyped quite this much, I become strangely reluctant to read it. Everyone tells you it's wonderful, expectations become ridiculous, and you almost feel as though you're doing something wrong if you don't love it.

Then I met Elizabeth Zott.

And that was that.

Set in California in the 1950s and early 1960s, Lessons in Chemistry follows Elizabeth, a brilliant chemist trying to build a career in a world where far too many men think the words ‘woman’ and ‘scientist’ simply don't belong in the same sentence. Her life takes an unexpected turn and eventually sees her become the reluctant presenter of a television cooking programme called Supper at Six.

Except Elizabeth doesn't really believe in simply teaching women how to cook.

She's teaching chemistry.

And, without entirely intending to, she's teaching them that perhaps they don't have to accept the lives other people have decided they should lead.

I loved her.

Elizabeth is clever, literal, stubborn and completely unwilling to make herself smaller simply to make other people more comfortable. This causes her an extraordinary amount of trouble.

There were moments when I wanted to cheer for her and others when I wanted to reach into the book and say, ‘Elizabeth, perhaps don't say that particular thing out loud.’

She would have ignored me.

Obviously.

What I hadn't expected was how dark the novel could be. The bright cover and all the talk about the funny bits had somehow convinced me I was getting a fairly light read about a female scientist who ends up on television.

It isn't.

There is grief here. There is sexism, discrimination, abuse and the casual cruelty of people who have power over somebody they consider less important than themselves. Some of it made me genuinely angry.

And yet the book is also very funny.

That's quite a balancing act, and for the most part I thought Garmus pulled it off beautifully. One minute something awful is happening and a few pages later I was laughing again.

Then there is Six-Thirty.

Six-Thirty is the dog.

Six-Thirty is magnificent.

I am not accepting arguments on this matter.

The supporting characters were actually one of my favourite parts of the novel. Elizabeth may sit at its centre, but gradually this little collection of people forms around her, and some of the friendships were every bit as important to me as the romantic relationship.

The novel has clearly struck a chord with an enormous number of readers. It currently sits at around 4.28 stars from well over a million Goodreads ratings and won the Goodreads Choice Award for Best Debut Novel in 2022.

That doesn't mean everybody loves it.

One criticism I can understand is that Elizabeth occasionally feels almost too modern for the period. There were moments when I became very aware that I was reading a twenty-first-century novel about the 1950s and 60s rather than feeling completely immersed in that era. Some readers have also found the chemistry references heavy-handed or the story less subtle than they expected.

I can see where those criticisms come from.

They just didn't stop me enjoying it.

I also suspect your reaction to Elizabeth herself will determine how you feel about the book. If her bluntness irritates you in the first fifty pages, you're probably in for a very long 400 pages.

I found her refreshing.

What stayed with me most, though, wasn't the television programme or even the chemistry. It was the idea of how exhausting it must be to know you're good at something and constantly have people insist that you can't possibly be good at it because you're the wrong sex.

Elizabeth doesn't want special treatment.

She wants to be allowed to do her work.

Apparently, that's revolutionary.

By the time I finished, I understood why this book had been sitting on bestseller tables for so long. It made me laugh, made me furious and, unexpectedly, made me cry.

So once again, the enormously hyped book has won.

I'm beginning to find this annoying.

#KindleUnlimited: Is It Actually Worth Paying For?

 I have a slightly dangerous relationship with #KindleUnlimited.

I subscribe.

I download far too many books.

I look at my bank statement and wonder whether I really need another monthly subscription.

I contemplate cancelling it.

Then I find three books I want to read and decide I'll keep it for another month.

Repeat indefinitely.

But if you've never tried #KindleUnlimited, what actually is it? And more importantly, is it worth £9.49 a month?

So, What Is #KindleUnlimited?

The easiest way to describe #KindleUnlimited is as a subscription library for ebooks.

You pay a monthly fee and can borrow books from Amazon's #KindleUnlimited catalogue rather than buying each book individually. In the UK, it currently costs £9.49 per month. Despite the name, you don't actually need a #Kindle either; you can read through the free #Kindle app on a phone, tablet or computer.

You can have up to 20 titles borrowed at once, and there are no due dates. Once you've reached twenty, you simply return something before borrowing another.

And no, you don't get to keep the books forever.

Think library rather than Netflix download.

If you cancel your membership, you can carry on reading your borrowed books until the end of the current billing period. After that, you lose access to them.

But Are ALL #Kindle Books Included?

No.

And I think this is probably the biggest misunderstanding about #KindleUnlimited.

The word Unlimited makes it sound as though you can wander into the #Kindle Store, point at anything you fancy and say, "I'll have that."

You can't.

Only books included in the #KindleUnlimited catalogue are available as part of your subscription, and titles can enter and leave that catalogue.

This means you might search for the latest bestseller everybody is talking about and discover that it isn't included.

Which is mildly irritating when you're already paying £9.49 a month.

On the other hand, there are millions of titles available, and this is where Kindle Unlimited becomes interesting.

It's Brilliant for Discovering Authors

This might actually be the best thing about it.

When I'm buying an ebook outright, even if it's only £3.99 or £4.99, I'll usually look at the reviews and think about whether I really want it.

With #KindleUnlimited?

"That looks interesting."

Click.

And suddenly I'm reading it.

If I don't like it, I return it.

No money wasted.

That makes me much more adventurous with my reading. I'll try an author I've never heard of, pick up something with only a handful of reviews or wander into a genre I wouldn't normally spend money on.

Sometimes they're terrible.

Sometimes I find an author and immediately read their entire backlist.

That's half the fun.

When Does It Become Good Value?

This is where I think you have to look at how much you actually read.

At £9.49 per month, you're paying £113.88 a year if you keep the subscription continuously.

If you normally read one £3.99 ebook every month, #KindleUnlimited probably isn't saving you anything.

Two £4.99 books?

You're roughly breaking even.

Three, four, five or more books every month?

Now it starts looking considerably more attractive.

And if you're the sort of person who can disappear into a ten-book series and emerge three weeks later looking slightly bewildered, #KindleUnlimited can be excellent value.

What About Audiobooks?

This is a nice extra.

Some #KindleUnlimited books include audio narration, although certainly not every book does. Amazon says thousands of audiobooks are available through the service; you need to look for the narration/headphones indicator on eligible titles.

So I wouldn't subscribe purely as an alternative to #Audible.

But if you already want #KindleUnlimited for ebooks, the included audiobooks are a lovely bonus.

#KindleUnlimited or BorrowBox?

This is where things get interesting.

Because after my enthusiastic ramble about BorrowBox, there is an obvious question:

Why pay Amazon £9.49 every month when the library lets you borrow ebooks for free?

And the answer is... you might not need to.

If BorrowBox has the books you want and you're happy waiting for popular titles, use your library. Seriously. Free wins.

But the two services feel quite different.

BorrowBox is a proper library system. A digital copy can be unavailable because somebody else has borrowed it, so you reserve it and wait.

#KindleUnlimited doesn't have waiting lists for titles currently in its catalogue. If a #KU book is available, you can borrow it straight away.

For impatient readers — hello — that's rather appealing.

So, Is #KindleUnlimited Worth It?

For some readers, absolutely.

I'd say it's worth considering if you read several books every month, enjoy discovering new or independent authors, devour long series, or regularly find books you want in the #KU catalogue.

If you only read one or two books a month, mostly want the big new releases, or already get everything you need through your library, I'd save the £9.49.

There's also nothing stopping you from dipping in and out. Amazon allows you to cancel at any time, and currently even offers the option of pausing a monthly membership for one month in eligible circumstances.

And that's probably the sensible approach.

Subscribe when you've spotted a pile of books you want.

Read them.

Cancel.

Walk away feeling financially responsible.

Then accidentally resubscribe three months later because you've found a twelve-book series and the first one has a dragon on the cover.

You know how it goes.

BorrowBox: The Library I Carry Around in My Pocket

 After writing about the slow disappearance of local libraries, I realised there was something else I wanted to talk about.

BorrowBox.

If you have a library card and haven't investigated whether your local library gives you access to BorrowBox yet, please do.

Seriously.

Go and look.

I discovered BorrowBox rather later than I should have, and my first reaction was basically: Hang on. You mean these books are FREE?

Not free in a dodgy-download-from-somewhere-you-probably-shouldn't sort of way. Properly free. Borrowed from the library, just like taking a paperback home, except you don't actually have to leave the sofa.

BorrowBox is a digital library service used by public libraries. Depending on what your particular library service offers, you can borrow ebooks and audiobooks through the app, and BorrowBox now also supports digital magazines and newspapers.

All you need is your library membership details.

And this is where things became dangerous.

I downloaded the app.

I logged in.

I started browsing.

Approximately seven minutes later I had borrowed several books and put myself on waiting lists for several more.

Apparently giving me access to a library at eleven o'clock at night was an error in judgement.

It's Not Quite #KindleUnlimited

I initially assumed it would work a bit like #KindleUnlimited.

It doesn't.

It's still a library.

That means the library has a certain number of digital copies available. If somebody else has borrowed the book you want, you may have to reserve it and wait your turn.

Which sounds annoying until you remember one important detail.

You're not paying for it.

And waiting for popular titles isn't unusual. Research into ebook borrowing in public libraries found that 83% of ebook borrowers had wanted a title that wasn't immediately available and joined a waiting list, while 58% simply borrowed something else while they waited.

That's pretty much what I do.

"Oh, that one's not available until October."

Fine.

I'll have these four instead.

Problem solved.

Audiobooks Are Where It Gets Really Good

I think the audiobooks might be my favourite part.

Audiobooks can be expensive, particularly if you listen to a lot of them. With a library service like BorrowBox, suddenly you can experiment.

I've borrowed books I probably wouldn't have bought because I wasn't sure whether I'd like them.

Sometimes I've abandoned them after an hour.

No guilt whatsoever.

Back they go.

But I've also discovered books and authors I might never have tried otherwise.

That's one of the things libraries have always done brilliantly, and I love that BorrowBox manages to recreate a little of it digitally.

But Isn't This Killing the Physical Library?

I wondered about that too, particularly after my last post.

But I don't think it is quite that simple.

Digital borrowing has become a significant part of what modern libraries actually provide. In 2019–20, physical formats accounted for 88% of library loans; by 2024–25 that had fallen to 65%, with digital borrowing taking a much larger share. Ebook loans stood at 3.6 million in 2024–25, while digital audiobook loans had risen to 4.7 million.

For some people, digital borrowing is also what makes the library accessible in the first place.

Research has found people turning to ebooks because they have mobility problems, can't easily reach a branch, need adjustable text because of sight loss, or simply can't find the book they want on the physical shelves.

So perhaps BorrowBox isn't replacing the library.

Perhaps it is another door into it.

There Is One Slight Problem

My TBR.

Obviously.

Before BorrowBox, I had the books on my shelves, the books on my Kindle and the books I'd saved because somebody on the internet said they were brilliant.

Now I also have:

Books I've borrowed.

Books I've reserved.

Books I've spotted on BorrowBox and intend to borrow later.

This is getting ridiculous.

But there is something rather lovely about finishing a book late at night, opening the app and discovering another one waiting to be borrowed.

The local library might be closed.

The lights might be off.

The doors might be locked.

But somehow, a little piece of it is still sitting in my hand.

And I think that's rather wonderful.