A Conversation with John Pistelli

One of the unexpected pleasures of the last six months has been discovering self-published novels. I was never a snob about such things, but I had assumed, for a long time, the cream usually rose to the top. It’s not that the novels getting pumped out by the conglomerates and prestigious indies were better, but it seemed unlikely to me that there were a great number of undiscovered gems. With enough new books to catch up on in a given year, how could I also track those that were thrown up by writers themselves—sans gatekeepers like agents and publishing house editors? One of the great innovations of Substack has been making it easier to unearth talent that, in a healthier literary climate, would have been uplifted by the traditional publishing machinery. I am increasingly convinced most publishing houses don’t know how to cultivate or promote rising writers and that talent itself—the best, the brightest, the most ambitious—is not getting where it needs to be. Twenty or thirty years ago, individual editors were empowered to pluck authors from obscurity and work with them until they were publishing books that could move the culture. Influential editors like Gordon Lish, Sonny Mehta, and Gary Fisketjon were permitted to follow their tastes; novels then weren’t sifted through sprawling committees or merely acquired for their potential as IP. I don’t mean to idealize twentieth century publishing conditions too much, but this reality can’t be handwaved away. For daring novelists, it’s tough out there.